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Heathcliff and I have been inseparable for years, ever since my father found him starving in the streets of London and brought him here to live with us.

Yet in all that time, Heathcliff has never once complimented my looks.

He has quietly praised my riding skills, laughed at my wit, and admired my aim with a slingshot, but he has never called me “pretty,” until now.

He has watched me, though. Sometimes I catch him staring at me with the heat of a midwinter bonfire in his eyes, a hungry blaze so intense that I fear I might burst into flame from sheer proximity to it.

He’s looking at me that way now, with a ravenous heat barely concealed beneath a veil of merriment.

“If I ever did have indelicate thoughts, you are the last person I would tell,” I say saucily.

Rather than being piqued, he gives me a triumphant smile, as if he has secured a prize. “You tell me everything else that enters your mind. Why should those thoughts be the exception? Unless…could these indelicate thoughts be…about me ?”

“Of course not,” I gasp, too quickly, too breathlessly.

He grins wider, and my heart flutters into a frenzy. I cannot sit still, cannot sustain the sedate walking pace of the horses, so I urge my mare into a sudden gallop and tear away from Heathcliff.

He follows, keeping pace just behind me at first, then bringing his horse abreast of mine once we’re out on the moors.

We follow the routes we know, where the ground is good for the horses.

They seem to relish the run as much as we enjoy the ride, but at last we pull them to a halt at the crest of a hill to let them breathe.

The wilderness stretches before us, a sweeping expanse of low swells and rocky outcroppings; green grass and gray, jutting stone; misty, purple heather and smoky-blue sky.

The wind blows past my cheeks, tossing my curly hair into a hopeless tangle, whipping fresh blood into my face, filling my lungs with freedom. Each breath I take feels like laughter.

“Where shall we go?” I ask Heathcliff.

“Wherever you need to go,” he replies. There’s a weight to his words, a significance that makes me turn and look at him. It’s there again, in his eyes—the torches of a thousand dark nights, the heat of unspoken promises, of heavy breath against warm skin.

I have touched him a million times, in so many different ways.

Pinches and smacks when we were petulant children fighting over nonsense.

Hands gripped to pull each other over stiles or onto rocks.

Fingers squeezed under tables when my father was drunk and brawling through the rooms of Wuthering Heights, hunting for someone on whom to focus his anger.

I’ve brushed Heathcliff’s hair back from his forehead when he was sick.

Squeezed his shoulder to warn him not to further antagonize Hindley.

And I pushed Heathcliff once, not long ago—shoved both hands against his broad chest during an argument, after he called me “haughty and headstrong.” I’ve been called much worse by my own blood-kin, but from him, the words rang true, and they stung.

He let me shove him, though his fingers flexed at his sides as though he longed to lay hands on me in return.

I lay awake that night, wondering exactly what he would have done to me if he hadn’t managed to hold himself back.

There was something wild and tender in his gaze during that argument, and the same violent affection shines in his eyes now, as he sits on his horse beside me.

I know him so well, and yet I hardly dare to interpret that look. I can scarcely admit what I want it to mean or to confess to myself why I’m mentally running through a list of places we might visit that could provide us with some privacy.

“The ruins of that little church in the hollow,” I say at last. “The one with the huge gravestone broken in three pieces.”

Part of the stone church is intact, and in the shade and shelter of a secluded corner is a bed of rich, thick grass on which two people might recline in comfort and do certain indelicate things without being seen.

I know how men and women lie together. Years ago, I witnessed a drunken tryst of my father’s from a hiding place I dared not leave, and once I heard a few women gossiping in the village about various tawdry affairs.

I listened to them for as long as I could before Nelly hurried me away.

Since then, I have also discovered a few books with naughty sketches which Hindley keeps hidden in the library.

I thought about showing one to Heathcliff, but the mere thought of seeing those images while in his company made me blush furiously and set my pulse racing so fast, I thought I might faint.

“The church in the hollow, then.” Heathcliff does not comment any further on my choice. After all, the ruined church is a place we have visited often since we were children. He has no reason to suspect that I might have ulterior motives for selecting it as our destination.

After a short ride to the church, we tie the horses in the shade of a tree not far away, so they can graze while we…explore.

I very much want to explore Heathcliff, if only he will let me.

My breathing feels thick and slow, punctuated by my rapid heartbeat.

Thrills ripple through my lower belly and a feathery sensation wakens between my legs, in places I’ve only tended when I’m alone.

I’ve managed to achieve a climax twice, with difficulty and persistence, while picturing a certain dark-eyed man with tousled, black hair and broad shoulders.

Now that we are here, I feel incredibly foolish.

We used to come to this place to practice with our slingshots, and we played among these gravestones.

It feels almost sacrilegious that today I am considering a very different kind of play—a game I’ve never tried, one that could lead to ruined reputations for both of us.

I am not even sure where to begin or how to ask Heathcliff if he wants me. Perhaps I have been reading his expressions all wrong, seeing only what I wished to see. Perhaps I am a fool.

“I do not think I will be back in time for lunch with the Lintons,” I say suddenly.

Heathcliff’s shoulders stiffen. “Edgar is coming to lunch?”

“Yes. And Isabella. But I will not be there, and that will cause a great deal of trouble with Hindley.”

“And with Edgar, I imagine,” Heathcliff says dryly. “He fancies you.”

“I cannot think why .” Frustration leaks into my tone. “I have never encouraged him in the least.”

“He cannot help it.” Heathcliff’s words are curiously taut, as if he is repressing a great tide between his clenched teeth.

“Yes, well…he is rich and handsome,” I muse, kicking a tuft of heather. “A good match, I suppose.”

“Oh yes, very rich and handsome.” Heathcliff’s tone darkens. “He and his sister are both beautiful, wealthy, and well-educated, with excellent prospects. The perfect family.”

I glance sharply at him, narrowing my eyes. “You think Isabella is beautiful?”

“Of course.”

I stare at him for one incensed moment. Then I march away through the thick grass between the tombstones.

Heathcliff scoffs. “Does the truth offend you so deeply?”

“Not at all. Perhaps we should go home now and dress you up in some old finery of my father’s. You can come to lunch and court the beautiful Isabella. Maybe she will marry you. Picture it—me with Edgar and you with Isabella. What a happy group we will be!”

“I’d sooner marry a turtledove than Isabella Linton,” he growls. “She is a soft, fragile creature with no mettle and no backbone. I like a woman with fire in her belly and a razor for a tongue.”

I’ve reached the edge of the ruins. As I’m stepping inside the broken remnants of the stone church, Heathcliff darts past me, whipping around to face me and block my progress. I hate how handsome he looks in that greatcoat and how my knees tremble at the aching fury in his eyes.

“Catherine,” he says, and the word jolts through my chest like the purple lightning that pierces the heart of the moors on stormy nights. In his mouth, my name sounds like an immortal curse, like a violent blessing.

“Tell me,” he manages through gritted teeth. “Tell me you are joking. Tell me you do not plan to marry Edgar Linton.”

“I will do what I must,” I say icily, attempting to move past him, but he slams a palm against the broken wall and bars my way again.

“We would be apart, Cathy.” His chest heaves beneath the coat. “Edgar would separate us for good. I could not bear it. Could you?”

The wind off the moors rushes through the ruins at that moment, swirling around both of us, carrying the sweet, spicy scent of the grasses and the freshness of the wild.

A hot, fierce joy surges through my soul at the look in Heathcliff’s eyes. I have my answer without ever asking the question.

“That is why you stay, isn’t it?” I say softly, but I know he hears me despite the wind. “That is why you endure Hindley’s abuse, why you debase yourself and perform all the menial tasks he gives you when you are capable of so much more. You do it so you can remain here, with me.”

His eyes shine with ruthless devotion. “Why else?”

Perhaps I rise to meet him or he bends to meet me, or the universe curls inward to push us together—all I know is that his lips are finally touching mine, burning with all the feverish need I have sensed from him through these past months.

Our souls have been knitted together since we were young, but this passion is new, potent, and as terrifying as it is exhilarating.

Heathcliff wraps me up in his great arms with a groan of relieved delight, sinking deeper into the kiss.

I’m transported, whirling through scintillating realms of sensation, immolated by the rush of his hands as he gropes along my body, devouring every part of me like a man starved for touch.