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‘If you’re sure…’

‘I’m sure.’

In the end, they didn’t bother with the rations, nor try to talk over the screeching gale. Hawthorne remained upright against the saddles, as though determined to keep some semblance of space between them. But Thea was too exhausted to care. She longed for the reprieve of sleep and, thankfully, she drifted off the moment she curled up on her bedroll.

Strong arms encased Thea, wrapping her in a delicious warmth while deep breaths tickled the crook of her neck. As she woke to the rose and lilac clouds above, no sign of the howling winds from the night before, she realised whose heart it was that beat steadily against her back…

Hawthorne was holding her to his chest, every inch of him flush against her, the heat of him soaking through the thin layers between them.

When did this happen? How?A Warsword held her in his arms.TheWarsword. And in the depths of slumber, he pulled her closer still, creating a hot friction between them that Thea, still groggy with sleep herself, arched into without thinking.

To find him hard against her.

Her breathing hitched, an ache building between her thighs. Tipping her head back, the scent of his soap was intoxicating, and a flush of warmth spread through her whole body.

Hawthorne stirred, slowly, every movement only heightening Thea’s awareness of exactly where they touched.

A low hum of pleasure sounded against her skin and then —

‘Fuck!’

The contact vanished and the chill of the dawn air swept in.

‘Fuck,’ Hawthorne said again, leaping up, a rare blush gracing the tops of his cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, I —’ he stammered, turning away from her and adjusting his clothes.

Thea was on her feet, holding her arms across her chest, trying to rub the warmth back into her limbs, trying to erase the memory of his imprint against her.

‘It’s fine,’ she said, though her voice betrayed a tremble. Gods, she’d moved againsthim, she’dsoughthis touch…

‘Truly, Alchemist, I never meant —’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I must have… reached out in my sleep.’

Somehow, his mortification eased the throbbing in her own body and the confusion that came with it. A laugh bubbled out of her.

‘You think this is funny?’ he demanded, incredulous.

‘A little.’ She gave his pants a pointed glance where there was no hiding the unmistakable bulge.

‘Gods,’ he muttered, adjusting the fall of his shirt again. ‘You’ll be the end of me.’ He snatched his swords from the ground and walked off. Thea soon heard a curse, and the distinct sound of water being tipped over his head.

WILDER HAWTHORNE

‘Fuck,’ Wilder muttered again as he put as much space as possible between him and the infuriating alchemist. He left their camp behind, his cheeks aflame and his erection still straining against his pants. The sensation of her backside pressed against him was seared into his mind, as was the feel of her arching into his embrace.

‘Furies save me,’ he groaned, tipping an entire canteen of cold water over his head, hoping it would cool the inferno within.

It didn’t.

His whole body was trembling, longing for contact, for release and – against his better judgement – forher.

I sought her warmth in the night, he told himself.That’s all.

Wilder glanced back at their camp, spotting her tending to the horses. He had to hand it to her: she moved like a warrior of Thezmarr already. Her steps were light, her motions controlled and fluid. All her supposed training had paid off in that respect.

He tried to ignore the swell of her breasts, the swing of her hips and how she flicked her braid out of the way as she went about her tasks.

He had sprung away from her as though burned, but in truth it was all he could do not to pull her closer, and by the Furies had she fitted him perfectly.

Gods, he needed to do something about his cock. Desire pulsed so fiercely he had half a mind to tend to himself, just to get it out of his system, just to take the rock-hard edge off.