Heart aflutter in her throat, Maeve held on to Arawn’s hand, watched him slowly turn around to her. The contact of his fingers on hers was a hot brand she felt searing through the fiber of her soul. His shadowed green eyes studied her face, seemed to strip her bare of all the layers she liked to hide behind.

“Tell me,” she said, her voice brittle, “something people don’t know about you.”

The crumbling walls of her composure, eroded by the depth of insight and consideration behind his gift, threatened to collapse, leave her exposed and shaken amid the awareness of just how well he knew her. She needed something in return, a piece of him she could shelter.

He regarded her for a long moment, and whatever he read on her face prompted him to grant her wish. “I do not like to sleep.”

He stepped closer, and she clasped his hand more fully.

“I have trained myself,” he went on, “to go without sleep for weeks while still being able to function, and when I do take a rest, it is only for a few short hours. I do not allow anyone to sleep next to me. Ever. My bed…the one I use for sleeping”—a smile playing around his mouth—“is in a secret room hidden so far beneath the earth, and behind wards so thick a hundred Elder witches could not breach them. I am the only one who has ever set foot in there.”

That…was not simply a dislike of sleeping. Precautions like these spoke of fear. If there was one thing Maeve had become an expert in, it was the kind of compulsive behavior dictated by the scars terror would claw into your soul. Her heartbeat drummed in her head at the realization that Arawn…could be afraid.

Of what? What could possibly have been powerful enough to leave such an indelible mark on his soul?

A part of her longed to ask him, and yet it would be foolish to do so. She didn’t have the right to request he bare his pain to her, not when it obviously went so deep. She knew all about the intricacies of vulnerability and sore spots in the heart and mind, and she’d be the last person to poke at someone’s wounds, would rather wait to be given the gift of his trust in this, when he was ready to share with her of his own accord.

And she wanted that trust.

She marveled at the feeling, at the desire to be the one he entrusted with those aspects of him that were fragile with destructive potential.

Gods knew she was familiar with that combination.

So instead of prodding him for an explanation of his statement, she nodded. “I get that.”

Because she truly did. And she didn’t need to know the root of his fear to understand the implications, the way it would become second nature.

“I thought you would.” One side of his mouth tilted up.

She was transfixed by the sensuality of that half smile. By his lips, which seemed the only soft part in a face that could have been hewn from hard rock. She’d felt the touch of those lips on her lashes, the caress of his breath on her nose, her cheeks, a sensory memory she hadn’t been able to shake since that moment in her cabin.

Her mouth went dry while the craving she’d failed to stifle over the past days infused her blood with prickling fire, pushed at her.

She rose to her feet, tugged at his hand. “Sit down.”

A gleam in his eyes. “Giving me orders?”

“I may want,” she said, excitement pulsing under her skin, “to put you on the menu.”

She didn’t even see him sit down. One moment he stood in front of her, the next he lounged on the log, his hands on the moss-covered bark on either side of him, his shoulder muscles flexing. A looming predator, no matter what position he was in, no matter how relaxed and lazy he appeared, his undivided attention and sensual intent merely hidden well behind a veneer of languid idleness.

She didn’t fool herself. He was still very much a wolf on the prowl, his sights firmly set on her. It was fascinating to realize she rather enjoyed being stalked by him.

He lounged in that quintessentially male way of taking up the entirety of any available space, his legs spread wide, and heat flushed her at the thought that he might have taken her bold declaration to mean something even bolder.

“Just a kiss,” she whispered, clearing her throat.

Not that an insistently hungry part of her didn’t yearn to reenact the images she sent him earlier, but tackling that particular fantasy was still a far-off goal.

“We can work our way down the menu.” The spark of his sly smile lit his eyes. “In time.”

“In time,” she agreed on a whisper, and set the box with the bowl down beside the log.

He leaned back a little, the heat of his attention pulling her closer, and she stepped between his legs. Her knees brushed against his thighs, his power curling around her.

“Keep your hands on the log,” she murmured, her fingers itching to stroke his skin once more. All that glorious skin over taut muscles, the breathtaking display laid out for her by his lack of a shirt yet again.

“Pushy.” An intimate rumble.

But he complied with perfect, prowling patience, with that unyielding focus that clearly said he was indulging her while he took pleasure in drawing her in even further. She knew his easy agreeability for what it was—simply another measured step in a game he still very much controlled.

She was okay with it, as long as the pretense of control he granted her allowed her to stave off the insidious fear that might yet lunge at her.

She laid both her hands on his shoulders. His muscles tensed under her touch, his heat seeping into her. Breath coming faster, she stroked over those impressive shoulder muscles and up to his neck. Corded strength under silken skin, power humming beneath her palms.

Dark energy twined around her arms…to her waist. A sneaky caress, one she found herself utterly incapable of rebuking. His hands remained on the log beside him, his posture all calm attention, and for the epicenter of her fears, that was what counted.

Up to his face her fingers went, gliding over the stubble on his jaw, the strong lines of his chin…to the sensual feast of his lips. Her pulse ticked low in her body, heat and desire unfolding with each beat of her heart, rolling out into her every nerve.

She let her fingers run over his lips, and she had to clench her thighs tight against the throb of desire at the touch. His power whispered along her hips.

Leaning forward a little, she bent down until only an inch separated their mouths, the air hot from their mingled breaths.

The gentlest of tugs on that bond between them. A dare. A reminder.

Holding his gaze, she touched her lips to his.

Prickling sparks down her spine, pooling heat between her legs.

She cupped his face as she brushed her mouth against his again, the sort of featherlight kiss that would make her knees weak.

And, yes, they wobbled.

She would have swayed were it not for the press of his thighs against her legs.

Flickering memories of darkest horrors in a dank room. The weight of a heavy body on hers, sweat and wet sounds and pain, roaming touches that turned her stomach—

Breath too shallow and fast, she whimpered, crushed by the force of a flashback that eclipsed the light of day, plunged her mind into the stifling black of a hole she couldn’t crawl out of. Flames itched to shoot out of her and…met the ink-drenched magic of a stronger power.

Fire fizzling out under the wave of that dark energy, she gasped for air, her chest choked tight, her body numb and tingling at the same time. The chilly, rattling blackness engulfing her mind gave way to blinding light, too much, too strong, all colors dissolved into glaring white.

Count your breaths.

She tried, failed. It was all one breath and none at all. Her lungs burned.

Breathe.

The power in that one word. It shook her, made her haul in air past the block of her most basic function, circumventing the icy clutch of fear in her mind.

Several breaths later, pastels emerged from the whiteness all around, shapes took form, sounds returned. The chirp of birds. The scent of wood and earth. Soft moss under her face, her hands.

She came to her senses curled into a ball on the ground, a yard away from Arawn, who still sat on the log, his expression inscrutable as he looked at her.

The shame of her humiliation burned hotter than the flames he’d soothed back into her core.

* * *

The sight of Maeve curled into a ball of misery on the ground sharpened Arawn’s ever-present hunting instinct into lethal focus. Only there was no one to chase down and tear to bloody shreds, no focal point for the urge to murder with mad methodology.

So he drew it inward, directed that rage at the other impulse beating at his brain, the need to gather the tense form of his witch and stroke her fears away. Doing so wouldn’t help her. Not yet, anyway. What she needed, at this point, was support of a different kind.

She sat up, shaking, her shoulders drooping, her hair hiding her face. He didn’t need to see her expression to know it was one of abject defeat, her humiliation smothering her like a mantle of failure, fringed by fear. Rising silently to her feet, she turned her back to him, as if wanting to slip away.

He would have none of that.

“One setback,” he said, keeping his voice conversational, “and you are ready to throw in the towel?”

She stiffened, anger in the set of her tense shoulders.

Anger was good. Anger was better than defeat.

“You wouldn’t understand,” she rasped. “It’s not that easy.”

“Who said it should be?”

She crossed her arms, and a muscle in her jaw twitched.

“Someone once,” he said on a silken murmur, bracing his elbows on his knees, “broke every bone in my body. When I tried to walk again after I started to heal, I fell on my face more times than I can count. It hurt. It was humiliating. But it would have been even more so had I given up.”

Eyes wide, she faced him, her arms falling to her sides. Surprise flickered over her features, and an echo of a stinging emotion flowed along the bond.

“Who did that to you?” she whispered.

“You would do well,” he said softly, “to remember what sort of reactions you dislike in others when they hear of your struggles.”

She blinked, those copper lashes lowering and lifting over gray-streaked amber. “I’m not pitying you,” she said after a moment. “I want to know who dared lay a hand on you, and whether they’re dead, or still mine for the killing.”

He barked a laugh, the sound startling him. He hadn’t laughed in ages. Not like this. Unrestrained, taken unawares by the sort of rousing amusement that came out of nowhere, yet consumed him.

He was still grinning, his chest feeling wide open, when he said, “I wish I could bring them back to life, then, just to watch you burn them to cinders.”

Her features had gentled, her eyes glowing as she beheld him, her lips parted on a sigh. “You’re magnificent when you laugh.”

Raw. She had to be ripped raw still from her flashback to be saying such things. “Tell me again tomorrow, and I may believe you.”

“Show me more of your laughter, and I will tell you every day.”

“Careful now,” he murmured. “If you stroke my ego any more, I will demand you stroke other parts as well.”

The blush on her cheeks was belied by the way her eyes flicked down to his crotch, his cock hardening at the unfettered hunger written on her face.

“First things first,” she said, focusing back on his mouth.

He straightened again, one hand braced next to him on the log, the other crooking a finger at her. She followed his call, her hips swinging in a way she was likely oblivious of, yet managed to rivet his attention, holding him spellbound.

Her curves were made to fit his hands, the impulse to comply with that surely perfect fit and to mold his palms to her flesh a surge in his veins. He had to dig his fingers into the moss and bark to keep from claiming what should be caressed, enjoyed, appreciated, in the most physical of ways.

She stepped back into the space between his legs—which he took the utmost care now to keep from trapping her again—her hands once more stroking feathered caresses over his face. He allowed his powers to twirl around her like before, a tiny taste of touching her that must suffice for now.

Her breath went uneven as she bent down again, pressed her lips to his, and he luxuriated in the feel of her heat, the silken curtain of red that fell around their faces, her scent of fire and wind another sort of kiss to a different sense of his.

Every muscle in his body hardened almost painfully as he forced himself to remain still, to let her lead. She needed that leeway, the promise of freedom and choice, the sort of passivity on his part that would allow her to reclaim what she lost in that warehouse.

And when—not if—she regained her confidence and kicked the terrors out of her mind, he’d be ready to pounce and play in a wholly different way than they’d done earlier.

All his thoughts scattered like leaves in a wind at the brush of her tongue against his lips.

Claws slid out from his fingertips, embedded in the log with the effort it took him not to reach for her, tug her closer. Instead he opened his mouth to hers, to her sensual invitation, drank in her soft moan when their tongues met. His powers vibrated over his skin…over hers.

She gasped at the touch of his energy, inched closer to him. Deepening the kiss, she leaned nearer still, and his body became, impossibly, more rigid as she slid one knee up his thigh, slowly slung that leg over his. Continuing the sensual exploration of his mouth, she repeated the move with her other leg, until she straddled him, her weight a lush caress in itself.

“You,” he muttered against her lips when she broke away for a breath, “are killing me.”

“Hm.” An unrepentant smile that he felt more than saw. “You look very invigorated to me.”

That teasing side of her…it slayed him.

Her fingers running through his hair, more touches of her tongue against his. Her teeth on his lower lip, sending a surge of need directly down to his cock. The scent of her arousal thickened the air, a lure to everything male in him.

“I want”—his teeth now nipping at her lip—“to feast on you until I drown in your taste.”

“You are.” A breathless whisper.

“Lower.”

A squeaky sort of moan. A roll of her hips against him, and she froze at what she obviously felt between his legs, his desire unmistakable.

“Eyes on me, Wildfire,” he repeated the words from earlier in the day, not letting her slip into a different place and time.

Quivering, she kept her focus on him as she deliberately rolled her hips again, rubbed against him in sinuous little moves that threatened his now tenuous control. He’d always prided himself on having a firm handle on the primal wildness of his nature—thousands of years of practice should bear fruit, after all.

Maeve grinding on his lap while he wasn’t allowed to touch her held the potential to shred the last of his civilized veneer.

Breath coming faster, she kissed him again, her own control in tatters as well, it seemed, for the licks of her tongue were more aggressive, her tiny moans more frequent, her fingers now gripping his hair. His powers snapped their leash, flowed into and through her, pushing all the buttons that needed pressure—and she shattered.

A low, long moan broke from her throat, which he swallowed with a kiss, more demanding than he’d thus far allowed himself to be. She shuddered, her eyes glazing over—not in a good way.

He grabbed her chin, made her look at him. “Here.” He tugged on the bond between them. “Now.”

Her lips trembled. She swallowed.

“Who am I?”

A soft inhale. “Arawn.”

The sound of his name spoken in her husky voice made his cock throb even harder, but he ignored it. There would be time for that. Later. When she was not on the verge of splintering for all the wrong reasons.

“You are in control,” he said, rubbing his thumb over her chin. “You decide. When. What. How much.”

She gave a shaky nod.

“But for now,” he added, pitching his voice to a low caress, “we are finished.”

Elegant ginger brows drew together over eyes of molten amber. “I know I am. What about you?”

“Sleep,” he replied with a dark smile, “is not the only thing I can forego without dying.”