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And when I finally look up, meet his gaze again, his eyes don’t waver. Not once. No flinch. No flicker. Just endless, ancient patience wearing a body that makes me want to bite things I shouldn’t.

And that’s when I realize the worst part:

He’s not trying to seduce me.

He’s just being honest.

He’s looking at me. No,studyingme—like I’m a riddle he already knows the answer to but still wants to hear me say it. And that should annoy me. It should light that sharp little spark in my chest that makes me bite back or raise my chin or throw something hard enough to break bone.

But it doesn’t.

BecauseOrinisn’t playing.

And gods, it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. His smile is slow, too restrained to be cocky, too knowing to be kind. Like he’s letting me see only the barest edge of what he actually wants to do to me. Not out of mercy. But because he enjoys this—me unraveling.

It’s subtle, the way he tilts his head, the way his gaze drops to my mouth and then lifts again like he’s cataloging the heat rising in my cheeks.

And there it is.

The flush.

Fuck.

I feel it, and it’s not soft or sweet. It’s humiliating. My skin betrays me before I can catch it, blood rising to my cheeks like I’ve never been near a beautiful man before.

Which is laughable.

I have five of them.

Five impossibly powerful, unreasonably hot, maddeningly bonded men who look at me like I’m holy and haunted all at once. I’ve been kissed against walls and pinned beneath hands that tremble just from touching me. I’ve had love poured into my mouth like worship. I’ve tasted want that came with teeth.

And still—

None of themmake my fucking knees buckle just bysmiling.

My throat is tight, dry, and my chest is tight in a way that has nothing to do with panic and everything to do withwant. Not just desire, not just lust, but something weightier—something that feels like it’s beenwaitingfor this moment, forhim, to come closer.

And he does.

Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just one smooth step closer, like I called him forward with my pulse.

He leans in—not touching me, butalmost. His mouth hovers beside my ear, and his breath is warm and patient and absolutely devastating.

“You blush for me,” he murmurs.

My whole body ignites.

Not explosively.

Quietly.

Like a slow-burning fuse that knows it’s seconds from detonation.

I don’t respond. Can’t. Not when he’s this close, not when I can smell him—damp earth and cold iron and something ancient beneath it all. Not when his voice has dropped to that impossible register that makes everything else disappear.

“I didn’t think you blushed for anyone.”

His mouth is still by my ear, and his hand—gods, his hand—rises slowly, not to touch, but to hover just above my hip. A promise. A dare.