Page 22

22

LIORA

T he moment I hit the water it immediately steals my breath, my thoughts, my control. Heat engulfs my body, soaking through my skin, dragging me under for a heartbeat too long. I thrash, gasping, shoving at the solid mass before me, but his grip is iron, unrelenting.

I break the surface with a strangled inhale, sputtering, water clinging to my lashes as I blink wildly, trying to make sense of what just happened. My hands lash out instinctively, shoving at his chest, but it’s like pushing against a wall.

“What in the?—”

Dain’s golden eyes gleam in the dim light, wicked, unrepentant. His grip shifts, sliding lower, wrapping around my waist as if he has any right to touch me like this.

I thrash harder, my legs kicking, but it only makes me more tangled in him, the motion pressing me closer against the hard, unyielding strength of his body.

“You,” I seethe, struggling to find words through my ragged breaths. “You bastard!”

His smirk is slow, dark, burning like embers in the dim cavern. “You were staring.”

My pulse slams into my ribs.

“I was not!”

He tilts his head slightly, watching me the way a predator watches a struggling thing caught in its claws. Amused. Infuriating. Inescapable.

“Liar,” he murmurs.

My stomach flips, twisting with something too dangerous, too hot. I need space, air, sanity. But his grip tightens, and I feel every inch of him against me.

It’s too much.

The heat of the water, the heat of him.

The smell of him, dark, smoky, male.

The solid weight of his body beneath my hands, his muscles shifting as he moves, as he pulls me closer instead of letting me go.

I should be fighting harder.

I should want to get away.

But my body betrays me.

My breath hitches, fingers tightening against his chest. He feels—gods, he feels like something carved from stone and heat and raw power.

I think he feels me shaking.

Because his smirk fades and his gaze drops to my mouth.

The world narrows.

It should not.

I should not want this.

But his breath is warm against my cheek, his fingers spread against the small of my back, pressing me against him like he owns me.

I am not moving away.

Neither is he.

The air between us fractures, thick with something unspoken, unwanted, undeniable.

His thumb brushes against my spine, barely a touch, but it sends a tremor down my back. Heat pools low in my belly, sharp and dangerous.

“Dain,” I whisper, but I don’t know if it’s a warning or something worse.

His lips hover too close, his breath curling over my damp skin, my jaw, my throat.

His voice drops, something rough, something raw.

“You don’t want this.”

I don’t answer.

Because I don’t know if that’s true.

His hand slides higher, fingers brushing along my ribs, exploring, learning, tracing the edge of my collarbone, the damp strands of hair clinging to my throat.

Every touch burns.

Every inch of me is too aware.

I should tell him to stop.

His lips crash against mine.

The world shatters.

The heat consumes.

I don’t think. I can’t think.

His mouth is hard, demanding, devouring, and I am drowning in him.

A low growl rumbles in his chest, vibrating through me as his hand slides into my hair, tugging, tilting my head back, opening me further to him.

I shouldn’t let him.

But I do.

I let him take. Let him steal the air that I breathe.

My hands clutch his shoulders, nails digging into skin and scars, my body arching toward his, caught in the storm of him, the storm of us.

I want more. Gods, I want more.

I press closer, pressing against the heat of him, curious, reckless, starving.

He lets me.

He lets me explore, lets me feel, lets me push past his restraint.

His tongue teases, demanding, conquering.

His fingers tighten in my hair, his body pressing me deeper against him, deeper into this thing neither of us can name.

It’s too much, too little, not enough.

He stops.

Rips himself away like he’s been burned.

I gasp, cold without him, furious, aching.

He stares at me, breathing ragged, eyes wild.

I don’t understand.

What just happened?

Why did he stop?

His fingers flex, as if he is restraining himself, forcing something back.

A voice low, tight, dangerous?—

“We can’t do this.”

The words slap into me like ice.

My body shakes, my lips tingling, my mind spinning.

I am still breathless, still burning, still aching.

He dares to say that?

I want to hit him.

I want to kiss him again.

What the hell am I doing?

My hands curl into fists, pressing against my temples as if I can shove the thoughts out, shove him out.

I need to breathe.

I need to forget this ever happened.

Dain is already pulling away, his back to me, his breathing still unsteady.

Good.

Let him be the one to suffer.

Let him be the one who feels as out of control as I do.

I turn, pushing myself away from him, from this, from whatever the hell that was.

I don’t look back. I can’t.