Page 68 of The King's Pawn
“I am making sure you aren’t dragged into a situation that’s already spiraling,” he murmurs. “Things are moving faster than I anticipated.”
I search his face for a lie, for calculation, for some kind of manipulation, but I find none. The sincerity in his expression catches me off guard, leaving me momentarily unbalanced.
“I’m not a child,” I say quietly.
“No,” he agrees just as quietly. “You are not.”
There’s something in that admission that shifts the air between us. An unspoken acknowledgment that whatever this has become—monster and captive, protector and prisoner—it no longer fits neatly into the boxes either of us started with.
“This is not a game,Printsessa,” he continues. “Do you think I enjoy having to lock you up? Your being here complicates everything. Your being alive complicates everything.”
“Sometimes, it feels like you resent that,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he studies me—really studies me. His gaze drifts from my eyes to my mouth and back again, slow and deliberate, weighing a decision he already knows he shouldn’t make. His hand lifts slightly, hesitates halfway to my face.
For one suspended second, I think he’s going to pull back.
But he doesn’t.
His thumb brushes my cheek.
The touch is feather-light, barely there, but it burns all the same, a thin line of heat that trails across my skin and lingers even after his hand retreats. My breath stutters despite myself, but I don’t move. I can’t.
“Believe it or not, Iamtrying to protect you.”
“Why?” The word slips out before I can stop it. His touch still ghosts my skin and I hate that I don’t pull away. “Why did you care? You don’t… you’re not supposed to care.”
His throat works as he swallows.
“I know,” he says, barely above a whisper.
Something inside me snaps.
I don’t give myself time to think. If I do, I’ll lose my nerve. I grab the front of his shirt and pull him in before either of us can second-guess it, before the world can rush back in and remind me of all the reasons this is wrong.
Our mouths collide.
The first kiss isn’t gentle. It’s heat and desperation slamming together, a collision rather than an embrace. His mouth crashes against mine with a force that tastes like frustration and restraint finally breaking.
I should shove him away. I should remember the papers on the desk in his study of my mother’s smile frozen in time, the truth that burned everything I thought I knew to be true. I should remember who he is and what he’s capable of.
But I don’t.
Instead, I open beneath him, my breath catching as if my body has been waiting for this even while my mind screamed against it. The kiss deepens, turns hungry, unspooling something raw and reckless between us. It feels like a mistake and a confession all at once.
His hand closes on my waist firmly, pulling me flush against him as if he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go. The other slides up to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, tilting my head just enough to steal another breath from me. His touch is possessive without being cruel, desperate without being careless.
My hands move on their own, dragging up his chest, clutching at his shoulders like I need the solidity of him to stay upright. I feel the tension in his body that’s usually so coiled and restrained suddenly unleashed, and it mirrors the chaos inside me.
Every thought I had a heartbeat ago dissolves under the force of it, under the electricity crackling between us, vibrating through all the broken, hollow places I’ve been trying not to feel. A low sound leaves his chest, rough and involuntary, that I feel echo through me like a struck chord.
For this one suspended moment, there is no past and no future. No contracts or bloodstained hands or monsters that hide in plain sight.
It’s justus.
I don’t remember moving.
One second, we’re standing in the middle of my room, my breath tangled between us, and the next, my back is hitting the mattress, the impact knocking the air from my lungs with a soft, startled sound. The bed dips beneath my weight, sheets cool against my skin, and then he’s there.
