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I push my chin forward as far as I can, which isn’t very far, considering how close he is. “I was going to say, ‘Don’t you dare ‘my dear’ me.’”

“You were going to say what ?”

“You heard me.”

“Honestly? You don’t like it when I call you ‘my dear’? “

“No, saalnaninndoe, it’s condescending.”

“Much like your Elvish.”

I shoot him the sharpest glare I can manage. “Dúr múera melome dunáe a, dúera alatna isn’ar a.”

“And what lovely curses did you just use , my dear ?”

“That’s a secret.”

“Now you have to tell me.”

“Never.”

“Tell me.”

He moves fast, slipping his fingers beneath my chin, tickling mercilessly. His weight keeps me trapped, his scent enveloping me: leather, philodendron, avocado, and the faintest trace of star elf skin.

I squirm beneath him, laughter bursting free, helpless and unrestrained. “Stop, stop!”

He doesn’t. He only grins. “Tell me.”

“I can’t!”

“Tell me.”

“Ah, stop!”

A shiver races over my skin, and I twist like a snake. I throw myself right, then left. Spin. Try to roll away.

But he pins me down, forcing me still. His nails drag over my nape, throat, collarbones, and chin.

“Fine!” I lift my hands in surrender, the motion rustling the bushes around us. I can’t move them forward. Netharu’el is in the way.

He pauses, his nails hovering above me, ready to strike again. His eyes gleam, his mouth curling in a slow grin and his jawline sharp beneath his skin. “Fine, what?”

“Fine, I’ll tell you.”

“Go on, then.”

“Move your fiery claws first.”

His hands glide slowly down my shoulders, coming to a stop there.

The sharpness is gone. Now it’s just skin against skin.

His against mine. He watches me, amused, waiting for a story worth hearing.

Around him, the jungle is dark, the golden light of dawn barely reaching this far.

Only a few rays slip through the tangled branches above.

He smirks. “Take your time.”

“It was just something I said. It doesn’t mean I meant it.”

“Now I’m curious.”

I snort, the breath stirring dust from his lips. “Oh, I bet you are.”

“So, what was it, Iszaelda? That I’m annoying? An idiot?”

“No.” I shift my gaze to his cheek, unwilling to meet his eyes. “Shouldn’t we focus on getting out of here?”

“Iszaelda.”

His fingers find my chin, tilting my face up, locking me in place with his gaze.

The dim light behind him turns his face into a shadow.

His panther-black skin blends into the darkness, a faint glow tracing the sleek fall of his hair.

His eyes, forehead, and mouth are veiled in shadow.

But I can make out the sharp ridge of his nose and the full curve of his lips.

“Mmm-mm,” I murmur.

“I think you should?—”

“Think less, Netharu’el.” I smile in the dark.

“Dúr múera means?”

“You, me. But you can’t just pluck out two words and expect to understand the whole meaning.”

“Can’t I?” His eyes flicker with challenge. “Try me. What does melome mean?”

I press my lips together. “Much.”

“And the last part?”

“Well… wouldn’t you want to know.”

“Say it.” His voice is low, a growl, smooth and dangerous like a predator playing with its prey.

“Shame you don’t remember.”

“I do remember you promising to?—”

“Dunáe a. That was the last part. It means like.”

His smile spreads, slow at first, then wider and wider. Like he’s turning the words over in his mind, savoring them, searching for everything they could mean.

“So, you said you like me? A lot?”

“And dúera alatna isn’ar a means…?”

“I’m waiting, my dear.”

I close my eyes. “You are…”

“Yes?”

“…attractive.”

He goes still. His fingers tense on my shoulders.

I keep my eyes shut. I don’t dare breathe. Don’t dare think. Don’t dare see. Pain knots in my chest. Burning, aching, searing. Don’t breathe. Don’t breathe. Don’t breathe. Don’t move. Stay still. This isn’t happening. Help. What have I done?

Slaying a dragon? No problem.

Chasing down Akares? No problem.

Telling a man I like him? Problem.

“Like I said, it was just something I blurted out,” I mumble. “A joke, really. But maybe you’re too old to get it.”

He says nothing.

I tense. My stomach knots. My throat thickens. My pulse pounds wildly, erratically. My heart is a fiery storm tearing through my chest. I should’ve lied. I could’ve said it meant something else. He never would’ve known. He never would’ve—oh! Why! I want to?—

His hand moves, his fingers brushing along my jaw. “You like me?”

“You? I like Rahveles, Jelethia, and even Vaast more than you. Sorry if I gave you false hope.” I squeeze my eyes shut, my breath uneven, my chest rising and falling like leaves in the wind.

“You think I’m attractive?”

“I’ve seen dwarves hotter than you.”

“You’ve never even met a dwarf.”

“And how in the fires would you know that?” I laugh, dry and sharp, still refusing to meet his gaze.

But I can feel his eyes on me. Burning, digging in deeper with every spark. They press against my skin, hot and heavy, like a touch that is not quite there yet…

“Sota, you’re like an open forest.”

“And you’re like a?—”

Netharu’el’s lips on mine. Silencing me and claiming me.

I stare into his wide pupils, shock pulsing through me before he presses me into the earth, hard, urgent, relentless.

His kiss is fierce, scorching, and intense.

I respond instinctively, arching my hips, parting my lips, and pressing my body against his as my fingers sink into his silky hair.

His lips are wet. Soft. His tongue pushes into my mouth, hungry, demanding, as though he’s been waiting and waiting and waiting for this.

Our bodies tangle. His movements, his uneven breaths between kisses, his hands, heat, and weight are all as I remember, just as they were in my dreams.

How is this possible?

A root digs into my spine, a branch jabs at my tailbone, and two sharp stones press against my thighs.

There’s dirt everywhere. Leaves crushed between us. The scrape of twigs and gravel as Netharu’el moves over me. But none of it matters.

Pain means nothing when he’s kissing me like this, when his body moves against mine, when his clothes drag against my skin.

He bites down on my lower lip. “Do you still think…” He kisses me again as if he can’t stop, as if letting go isn’t an option. His fingers weave into my hair, gripping tight, pulling me closer.

I draw back just enough to feel his skin against my teeth, his breath hot against my lips. “Think what?”

“That you don’t like me?”

“Are you sure you don’t like my Elvish?”

He exhales a rough laugh. “I must admit, my dear, it’s growing on me.”

My hands slide down his back, feeling the taut fabric under my fingers. Thorns from the brush scrape my knuckles, but I don’t care. “Same. You’re growing on me.”

“That sounded strange.”

“It did.” I giggle, pulling him closer, my hands buried in his long, silken hair. It slips through my fingers, smooth as water, gleaming in the faint light.

His voice is softer now, rough at the edges. “Do you still think I’m not attractive?”

I lean in, my lips grazing his. “An.”

“An?”

“Yes.”

And then I erase the space between us, dragging his mouth back to mine.

I can’t breathe. I don’t want to breathe. His legs tangle with mine, and his arms hold me tight, tight, tight around my waist. His soft lips. Netharu’el.

And I forget everything else. The Academy. The parchment. The red eye. Akares. Naeva. All of them fade.

Because right now, the world revolves around Netharu’el.

And nothing else.