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But I can’t.

I’m barely holding it together.

She unbuckles her seatbelt, and the sound snaps through me like a whip.

Every tiny thing she does—the way her fingers fidget on the buckle, the curve of her neck, the scent of wildflowers and spring rain clinging to her skin—it’s all too much.

“Let me get your bag,” I manage to say, slipping out of the truck like I’m not seconds from dragging her into the nearest barn and marking her like a damn beast.

Control, Zeke.

Keep your shit together.

I round the back and yank her suitcase free from the truck bed.

She’s already hopping down, sneakers hitting the dirt with a little bounce.

The way her rounded hips move when she straightens?

Fuck. Yeah. My Dragon growls.

“Thanks,” she says, brushing her hands down her jeans and walking around to take the handle from me.

I don't let go.

She grabs it, our fingers brushing—bare skin to bare skin—and the world tilts.

White-hot heat explodes from that point of contact and rips through my chest. My knees damn near buckle.

She gasps, wide-eyed. “What was that? Like static electricity?”

“No,” I say hoarsely, voice thick and low. “That was something else.”

It’s not the whole truth, but it’s not a lie, either.

The Dragon inside me roars.

Mate. Ours. Touch her again.

I take a step back.

I have to.

Because if I don’t, I’ll pull her against me and kiss the breath from her mouth, the kind of kiss that claims, that marks, that says mine in every language that’s ever existed.

Es meus.

My Dragon grumbles the words in the language of my kind.

Fuck. She really is the one.

Her eyes are on me, chest rising and falling fast.

She felt it. I know she did. Even though she doesn’t know what it even is.

“Okay,” she says finally, like she’s trying to convince herself it meant nothing. “So, that wasn’t weird at all.”

“Not weird,” I rasp. “Just destiny.”