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She wiped her expression blank. She was thinking all kinds of thoughts at that very moment, but she wouldnotreact.

He snapped his fingers. “Exercise. I should have said that first.”

“Youreallyshould have.”

He laughed far longer than he deserved to. “You know what I mean, that good ache in your muscles after a hard workout. Uncomfortable, but pleasant.”

“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “Does it feel likeanyof those things?”

“Well, no.” He frowned. Of course it didn’t. It felt like pain, and she’d never wanted to know more specifics than that, but she had to understand if she wanted any hope of taming it. “It’s more like a… buzzing. Or a vibration. It only hurts when it’s too… fast? Intense? It knocked the wind out of me at first, but it got less noticeable each time—more like a purr.”

“What is it with you and cats?”

He grinned. “Guess you remind me of one.”

“Because I’m so sweet and lovable?”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Mysterious and graceful?”

“Definitely not. It’s probably because you never sit correctly, and you get visibly annoyed when anyone reads a book in your presence.”

Shehumphed, uncurling her legs so her feet dangled, toes barely touching the floor. “Most chairs are too tall for me. It’s uncomfortable.”

“Excuses, excuses. Anyway, when you touch me, think like a cat.”

There was no excuse for the vivid mental image of herself in dramatic eyeliner, slinking toward him, hips swaying in a feline prowl, that popped into her head, but there it was.

Dante absently tapped his knee. “It’s like stretching. If you yank someone’s arm back, you could dislocate it. You have to ease in, stopping at the point of good pain. Speed and force make a difference. Like, touching foreheads is fine, but do it fast enough and it’ll get you thrown out of a fight. See what I mean?”

She raised her eyebrows. “I’ve been head-butting people?”

“In a way. Don’t think about power, just focus on touching. You aren’t hurt right now, so you don’t need anything from me.”

Had a sentence ever been so untrue?

She took a deep breath. “Promise me you’ll stop if it’s too much.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.” He slid his hands across the table.

“You aren’t allowed to.”

Two of her Fontes had made it past two touches, but no one had endured more than four.

Alessa closed her eyes, gathered herself. No taking, no using, no stealing.Just touching.

Alessa leaned over the back of the couch, her cheek a handspan from Dante’s parted lips, and held her breath until a reassuring gust of air warmed her skin.

Skin to soul, she was wrung out like a wet rag. They’d spent hours practicing, and she needed rest, but every time she got into bed, she panicked and ran back to make sure he was only sleeping.

The whole time, she’d been so scared the next touch would be the one that proved too much. But while her anxiety mounted, Dante had only grown calmer as the hours slipped by and the touches stretched longer.

By the time he’d agreed to stop, she was thrumming with more strains of nervous energy than she could label, and each brush of hands was branded on her memory, her skin tingling and hypersensitive as if she had a fever.

During the last few attempts, he’d claimed it didn’t even bother him anymore, but it had clearly taken a toll, because he’d fallen asleep where he sat, fully clothed.

She checked his breath one more time. Still alive.