Flamecaster (Shattered Realms #1)(93)

“Anything’s possible,” Adam said, staring up at the ceiling, a muscle working in his jaw.

“Take a wolf, for example,” she persisted. “If he’s got a thorn in his foot, he’s miserable and snappish, like a person would be. Once you take it out, does he worry it’s going to get infected, or he’s going to step on another thorn?”

“No.” Adam shifted his body, the friction between them sending her heart into a gallop.

“Does he cut off his paw to make sure it doesn’t happen again?”

Adam snorted, his lips twitching. “No.”

“Does he beat up on himself because he was careless, or he took the shortcut through the bramble?” She shook her head. “No. He moves on. He enjoys the fact that he’s not in pain. He doesn’t know what’s coming—whether he’ll bring down a fellsdeer or break his leg and freeze to death, but he recognizes that he doesn’t know. But people—we act like we do. We write that bad ending before we even get there.”

“Isn’t that what makes us human? The ability to look at the present and predict what’s likely to happen?”

“But we’re really not all that good at it, are we?”

“No,” he said.

Jenna rested her hand on his thigh and heard his startled intake of breath. They both looked at it, a pale starfish against his dark breeches.

“Take me, for instance.”

Startled, he looked up. “Excuse me?” he said hoarsely.

“By most standards, I’ve had a miserable life. Orphan, raised in Delphi, forced into the mines at a young age. Marked for death since birth.”

He eyed her, his brow furrowed, as if waiting for the punch line. “So? How does that—?”

“And yet, dozens of times, I’ve been ambushed by joy and beauty in the most unlikely places. Things I would have missed if I’d been preoccupied by pain. A sunrise over a slag heap. Ham for breakfast when I didn’t expect it. A song that goes straight to the heart.” She ran her fingers along his thigh, feeling his muscles tighten under her hand. “Maybe it’s primitive, to live in the moment, but there are advantages. For instance, I never expected to be ambushed by love in a dungeon.”

Jenna turned toward him, coming up onto her knees so they were at eye level. She looked into his face, reading the heat and hunger in his eyes.

“Me, neither,” he whispered. Sliding his arms around her, pulling her in close, he kissed her.

It was even more intoxicating the second time, and the third. Then she lost count as his fingers tangled in her hair and he pressed his body against hers. It was all lean, hard muscle, and it fit in against hers just right.

Then he kissed her throat, and her mouth again, long and sweet. It hit her like a gulp of stingo, running down into her middle and kindling a flame there. She caught his lip between her teeth, nibbling it gently, then tipped him backward so that they were lying flat on the rug.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and devoured him with kisses—his lips, his neck above the silver collar, that place just behind his ear. She slid her hands under his tunic, walking her fingers down his spine to the hollow at the base. He kissed her lips, her throat, the tops of her breasts, then crushed her to him, cradling her backside with his large hands. His fingers set off little explosions when they touched her skin that had nothing to do with magery.

She sat up then, one knee to either side of him, and fumbled with the laces on her bodice. She had no skill at it, though, and before she got far, he caught her wrists, pulling her hands away.

“Jenna,” he said, looking dazed, like he’d stood too close when a deep mine charge went off. Despite the desire in his voice, there was a “no” there, too.

“Let go, Wolf.” She shifted, pulled, trying to free herself. She could feel his body respond, and that made matters worse.

“You don’t understand,” he said. “I’ve been here too long already. The blackbirds. They could come in at any moment.”

“Damn the blackbirds.” She was strong, but he was stronger. It was like a cruel joke. The more she struggled, the hotter she burned, and the harder it was to let him go.

Finally, he rolled her over so she was on her back and he on top, sitting astride her. He pinned her hands to the floor and looked down at her, breathing hard, like he’d been running a race.

“You are . . . making it . . . really difficult to do the right thing,” Adam gasped. “You know that, don’t you?”

“This is the right thing,” Jenna said, arching her back so she pressed up against him.

With that, he straightened his arms and his weight came off her as he levered himself to his feet, putting the chair between them.

Jenna hung her head, cheeks burning. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I—I only—”

“Don’t be sorry,” Adam said, his hands clenching the back of the chair, his eyes glittering in the firelight. “This is the right thing. It’s just not the right time. I don’t want it to be like this—” He gestured, taking in the tower room. “Hasty, and furtive, under constant risk of interruption.”

She knew he was right, but still, she couldn’t help saying, “If not now, when? What if this is it, and we never—” Her voice broke. She tried again. “What if we look back and say, If only . . .”