Come to think of it, all the Elorsins do. Pax went on a killing spree after they lost their child – that can’t be any worse than anything Roarke did.
My fingers rub along the soft skin on his neck. Heat radiates up through my nails, along each bone, and into my hand, but no further. No rush of power. No spark of lust.
Just me and Roarke.
And a heavy pain in my head and in my chest. I swallow hard to try and control the impending waterworks and only partly succeed.
“I can’t see it that way,” he whispers.
“I can, and I think you should stop seeing it your way and start seeing it my way.”
He doesn’t agree with me or argue. He doesn’t say anything – just takes a long inhale and continues to hold me.
Eventually, when he relaxes his grip and straightens, I try to sneak a hand to my face to wipe the moisture away. He stops me, grabbing my arm, his fingers smooth against the bare skin of my wrist. He wipes his eyes with his palm. Looking intently at my hand for a long moment, a disbelieving expression on his face. Slowly, his gaze trails along my arm and up to my face.
My face, which is still wet with tears.
“You’re crying?” he asks.
I nod.
“Why?”
“Seeing you hurt made me hurt,” I say, my voice all choked up.
I almost don’t get to finish my sentence before his lips are pressed against mine. Moving in a long, slow caress that sets all the sensitive parts of me to a slow burn. Just a little. One flame dancing inside of me.
Soft. Careful.
After the crazy intensity that knocked me to the ground, this doesn’t even feel like the same guy. I feel his fist clench, actively trying to contain his power as his tongue brushes across my lip, and his breath stutters, skittering warmth over the moisture left behind.
I want to grip the front of his shirt and try to yank him closer to me. Wanting more. Wanting to fall into him and this moment, this kiss. Just him and me. Maybe even forever.
But all of that is because I want it. Not because his power is boring into me. Not because I’m on fire.
And because I’m still in control of me, I don’t overstep my boundaries again or let the unfurling of heat that has replaced the pain in my chest rule my actions. I can feel his pain, the lengths he’s going to, to be in this moment with me, but without his power.
Each one of my breaths is slow and purposeful. Containing my need. Clamping down on the burning until all I smell is the roses underneath.
Pure tenderness laces every movement he makes. His lips are just whispering against mine. His fingers trace through my hair. His fisted palm opens and presses flat to my hip. A shallow groan escapes him.
“Kitten,” he says, trying to catch his breath. “Please, stay.”
He turns sharply and scoops his book up off the floor. Then kicks into his unnatural Saber speed and slips into a world of his own. Picking up books, frowning at bottles, and clearing his workspace. The whole bench is cleared in a heartbeat – which is saying something, because my heart is racing.
I’m frozen in place with my eyes wide and my fingers shaking.
What the chuck? He can’t just kiss me like that then completely block me out – again.
I moan, running my hand over my clothes to try and smooth them into place. I’m so confused. My body wants to be all over him, wants to snatch at his power, and wants his power to snatch at me.
But obviously, I’m not going to get that at all.
Roarke’s too fast, faster than the others in their super-speed modes. He collects more books, flicks through them, reading in a blur, then props them open to specific pages using glass weights.
Silvari glass.
Just like the vials and the instruments. But not the potion jars. Makes sense – potion jars need to be able to break. Silvari glass almost never breaks.
Unless I’m around.
I avoid moving in case I get in his way. He blurs around the room, drawing across the bench with chalk, then gathering ingredients off shelves and frowning at them.
“Swirls and dots. Three of them,” I mutter to myself as I turn to the filing cabinet.
Outside, the world is dark, and clouds are rolling in to fill the night and hide the stars.
I dig through the filing cabinet, finding something that looks similar to the word Roarke wrote down, but I’m not game enough to try and walk over to the workbench to double-check – if he ran into me at his speed, he’d probably kill me. Inside the folder are two pieces of paper. One looks like a list, with small diagrams of plants and several symbols that could be cooking methods. He said he already had the recipe, so this is nothing new. The other looks like a letter – the handwriting is different to the list and in the corner is a very official-looking gold seal.
A rush of static pinches at the nerves just under my skin as thunder cracks in the distance.
Roarke keeps working.
I pace away from him, skirting around the edge of the room, not finding the edge of my bubble until he zips across to the far wall, and it bumps into me. I wait until he’s not moving before I pace towards him. Counting each step across the room, right up until I’m standing flush against his back.
He turns so quickly that I’m knocked staggering back.
“Kitten, what are you doing?”
“Fifteen,” I say.
One eyebrow furrows in confusion, then lifts in surprise.
“Fifteen,” he whispers.
Then he takes my shoulders and paces me backwards, pushing my butt onto the window seat, before backing up. I count his steps, fifteen – then my wall bumps me to my feet. He’s not even at the far wall yet. From the window seat, my bubble doesn’t even cover
