Page 164 of Harbinger

He looks right at me. “I haven’t been with anyone since I died.”

So, I guess he’s done dancing around it.

And there’s really only one reason he would tell me that … unless …

For a moment, the sole sound in the room is the soft lap of water against stone. I don’t realize I’m staring until he splashes me from across the pool. “Don’t give me that pitying look. I have hands.”

“I’m …” I shake my head, trying to think of anything but those hands.

I force myself to swallow, my mouth suddenly bone-dry.

“You could always leave your clothes on.” I shrug, going for casual and feeling anything but. “Keep it quick and dirty.”

“When I take a woman to bed,” he says, voice low and filled with promise, “I want it to mean something.” His mouth curves faintly. The way it does across the sparring ring when I’m still circling and waiting for him to make the first move.

He’s not going to close this distance. Not unless I ask for it. Not unless I choose it. A sharp thrill races down my spine, and suddenly, the distance between us is unbearable, like holding a breath underwater for too long. I move before I can second-guess myself, the pool rippling softly as I rise from it.

Water slides off my shoulders, trailing over the mark on my chest, before tickling lazily down my breasts. I don’t try to hide my body. Not from him.

I wait for the fear to hit. Of letting him see me. Of crossing this line.

But it doesn’t come.

There’s only a deep, safe certainty and something trembling under it, something that needs his hands on me.

Something that just needs … him.

His nostrils flare as I slowly close that final distance between us. He shifts upright, reaching a hand below the water as the other skims the surface, his fingers flexing slightly.

This close, the heat of his body is unmistakable even in the steaming water.

I lift a hand, drawn to the pale, intricate lines on his shoulder, but I stop myself an inch away, asking a question without words. My heart thunders as his breath catches.

But he doesn’t stop me.

The permission settles into me slowly, steadying rather than dizzying.

“It’s a crime,” I say quietly, “that you hide your power. It’s beautiful.”

I trace a finger along the vestige on his collarbone, following it to the one right over his heart. Something charged sparks where our skin touches, and a low moan slips from my lips.

“If you want me to stop, say it,” I whisper, praying he doesn’t as I step between his legs.

He draws a shuddering breath, his chest rising with the weight of that armor he’s wearing even now. His throat slides, long and slow.

“Arden.” His voice breaks on my name, a hand lashing out to grip my wrist. “I want this. I want you.”

He starts to rise, but I plant my free hand on his shoulder and push him back down. Pulling free of his grasp, I wrap my arms around his neck and lower myself slowly into his lap, my knees biting into the stone bench as I straddle him.

We’re face-to-face, but Bishop remains still, like he’s waiting for me. He opens his mouth and hesitates for a moment. “Are you sure?” he asks, the longing in his eyes so deep, I think I might drown in it. What a beautiful way to die. “Because this means something to me, so if you aren’t …”

And somehow, in the midst of all this chaos and pain and uncertainty, this is the one decision I can’t bring myself to question. Not even for a moment.

I brush my hand along the back of his neck, and he exhales slowly, his unguarded eyes proving he’s finally removed that last remaining piece of armor.

“Before,” he says, “I couldn’t. Not before you knew the truth. And then you were hurting …”

Understanding clicks sharply into place. He was protecting me. Not himself. Not the secrets he carries. Me. He was always protecting me.