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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
H er touch was fire and ice. Every gentle press of the cloth against his skin became a fresh agony of restraint. Ulric fixed his gaze on the intricate pattern of the rug beneath his feet, on the flicker of candlelight dancing across the stone walls—anything but the sight of her kneeling before him.
The pain of his wound faded to insignificance compared to this exquisite torture.
His enhanced senses heightened every sensation—the whisper of her breath against his skin, the subtle changes in her scent as she worked.
The soft rasp of cloth against his flesh might as well have been lightning strikes.
He could hear the frantic beat of her heart, a rhythm that mirrored his own thundering pulse.
This was worse than the rockslide. On the mountain, his choices had been clear, his path certain. Here, in the quiet of his chamber, he was just a wounded male, being tended by his female. His Beast wanted to drag her into his lap and never let her go.
A bead of sweat trickled down his spine. The muscles in his jaw ached from clenching. He fought to remain still as she reached for a small jar in her satchel, uncorking it to release the sharp, clean scent of healing herbs. “This will sting,” she murmured, her voice soft in the stillness.
He nodded once, not trusting himself to speak. She scooped up the salve, then applied it to his wound with sure, confident movements. The sting was nothing—a mere pinprick compared to the inferno her proximity ignited within him.
For the first time since she’d entered his chamber, he allowed himself to look at her—truly look at her.
The candlelight caught in her honey-gold hair, creating a halo around her bent head.
Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her lips slightly parted.
Her hands, small and delicate against his much larger body, moved carefully over his skin.
He tried to remind himself that she was just a political bride but it didn’t work.
This was Jessamin. A strong, capable woman who had walked into the den of a wounded Beast without fear.
Who had faced his temper and met it with quiet strength.
Who had seen him at his most vulnerable and offered not pity, but care.
Her fingers lingered on his arm after she bandaged his injury, no longer tending the wound but simply touching him. The contact sent a jolt of heat through his body, his control fraying.
She looked up, her sapphire eyes meeting his. What he saw there shattered the last of his restraint—a hunger that mirrored his own.
Ours.
His Beast surged forward and he didn’t try to stop it. He cupped the back of her neck, drawing her towards him as he bent down, and their lips met in a clash of need. The first touch was an exquisite pleasure, a promise fulfilled after endless denial.
She made a small sound in the back of her throat, her hands coming up to grip his shoulders. The kiss deepened, his tongue sweeping into her mouth to taste her. She was as sweet as he had imagined, as intoxicating as he had feared. She met him eagerly, willingly, her body melting against his.
His Beast roared its approval, demanding that he claim her fully. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer. He wanted to carry her to his bed, to lay her down and take what was rightfully his?—
Sanity returned in a cold rush. He set her back on her feet and stood abruptly. The movement was jerky and harsh, putting distance between them. His breath came in ragged pants, his body still thrumming with need.
“Thank you,” he ground out, turning away from her. He couldn’t bear to see the confusion, the hurt that would surely be written across her face. “You may go.”
He stared at the wall, every muscle in his body rigid with the effort it took not to turn around, not to reach for her again. He had to get her out before he succumbed to the primal need that consumed him. He knew that if he gave in, if he took her to his bed, he would never let her go.
The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words. He heard her gather her things, the soft rustle of fabric as she stood.
“Ulric,” she said softly.
He closed his eyes, his name on her lips a fresh torment.
“Please look at me.”
He couldn’t deny her. He turned, his face a mask of rigid control.
She stood straight and proud, her cheeks flushed but her gaze steady. “I am not afraid of you.”
Four simple words that cut straight to his core. Before he could respond, she turned and left, closing the door softly behind her.
He remained frozen, her words echoing in his mind. Not afraid. Not of his size, his strength, his Curse, his crown. Not of the Beast that lurked beneath his skin.
The realization was both terrifying and exhilarating. For if she truly did not fear him, what else might she be willing to accept?