Page 37 of Shadow of Misty Mountain

That... that does something to me. The steady way she meets my fire with her own. The calm inside the chaos. I want to protect her, yes—but I also want to strip her bare and worship the fact that she hasn’t run. Not from me. Not from this.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” I say, voice low.

“Maybe not, but you need to trust that I can handle it.”

My hands fist at my sides. I want to grab her, haul her against me and kiss her until she forgets her own name. I want to bury everything I’ve been carrying in her warmth, lose myself in the only thing that’s made sense since the second she showed up on my porch in the middle of a snowstorm with nothing but a name and a target on her back.

“Abby.” Her name comes out rough. “They trained me to compartmentalize. To wall things off. If I let go…”

Her hands reach up, slide along my chest, fingers curling in the fabric of my shirt. “Then let go.”

I close my eyes for a beat, my control hanging by a thread. I’ve killed men for less than the way she looks at me now.

“You don’t get to kiss me like that,” she says, voice barely above a whisper, “hold me like that, protect me like that—and then act like you don’t want this.”

My eyes snap open. She’s close now, lips parted, eyes defiant and full of something that slices through me with pinpoint precision.

Need. Trust. A challenge wrapped in a promise.

I reach for her, grip her hips hard enough to make her gasp. “You’re playing with fire.”

“I know,” she says, breath catching. “Why do you think I brought the matches?”

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, Abby.”

“I’m not starting it,” she says. “I’m finishing it.”

That’s it. I back her up fast until her spine hits the wall and her breath stutters. My mouth is a breath from hers. I watch her eyes—watch her pupils blow wide, her hands tightening on my chest.

“You sure you can handle this?” I ask, voice low, dangerous.

“I’m not the one who’s been holding back.”

My lips crash to hers. There’s nothing gentle about it. No slow build. Just two people burning in the same fire and finally giving in. Her fingers claw into my hair, her legs parting as I press my body into hers, the friction already too much and not enough.

I tear my mouth away just long enough to growl, “Bed. Now.”

She pushes off the wall and walks backward, eyes locked on mine, each step daring me to come take what I want. What we both want.

I follow.

The second she’s near the mattress, I grab her wrist, spin her, and pull her flush against me. One arm locks around her waist. The other slides into her hair, tipping her head back so I can drag my lips along her neck.

“You don’t get to run from this,” I whisper into her skin.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“You want me to fall?” I say, voice thick.

She nods, lips parted. “Fall with me.”

The tension between us has been building all night in a way that's impossible to ignore. Every accidental touch of her fingers against mine, every lingering glance—it all carries a quiet, simmering heat, just waiting to ignite. We’ve been circling each other like wary predators, acting cool even as the desire grows. But now, I’m done with pretenses.

She softly utters my name, almost in a whisper. I don’t hesitate any longer. My hands secure themselves around her waist, drawing her close in one decisive move, leaving no time for her to think twice. “Quiet,” I murmur against her lips before capturing them in a kiss that wipes away any uncertainty clinging to her.

She doesn’t recoil. Instead, she leans in and melts against me, as if her very structure has surrendered to the moment. Her body presses warmly against mine, exuding both intensity and softness. There’s no sign of hesitation in the way her lips now answer mine. I have her, and she has me.

“Abby,” I say in a low, husky tone, the restraint in my voice barely concealing my eagerness.

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