Page 63 of The Thief
"That's not funny."
"Wasn't meant to be."
His hand cups my cheek, thumb tracing my cheekbone. The touch is gentle, reverent, like I'm something precious he's afraid to break.
"Alastríona."
My name sounds different in his voice. Softer, more intimate. Like a prayer or a promise.
When he kisses me, it's different from last time. Hungrier, more desperate. Like he's trying to memorize the taste of me in case this is the last chance he gets.
I kiss him back without thinking, without calculating the risks or the consequences. Just feeling, just wanting, just needing something real in a world that's suddenly too complicated to navigate alone.
His hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer. I can taste whiskey on his lips, feel the controlled strength in his touch. This is a man who could break me without trying, but he's holding me like I'm made of glass.
"We should stop," I whisper against his mouth.
"Probably."
But neither of us moves. We stand there on Henry's terrace, kissing like the world is ending, like this moment is all we have.
His hands slide down my back, pulling me against him. I can feel his heart racing, feel the want radiating off him in waves. It makes me want to forget about consequences, about trust issues, about everything except the way he makes me feel.
"Come upstairs with me," he says.
"Freddie—"
"I know it's complicated. I know you're scared. But I need you to know that this—" he gestures between us, "this matters to me. You matter to me."
"For how long?"
"For as long as you'll have me."
Simple words honestly given. No promises about forever, no declarations of undying love. Just truth, offered without conditions.
"Okay," I hear myself say.
We make it to my room without anyone seeing us, without having to explain what we're doing or why. Just two people who want each other, despite the circumstances, despite the risks.
He closes the door behind us and turns to face me. For a moment, we just look at each other, both knowing we're about to cross a line we can't uncross.
"You sure?" he asks.
"No. But I want to be."
"That's enough."
He kisses me again, slower this time. Savoring it. His hands are careful, respectful, giving me time to change my mind.
But I don't want to change my mind. I want to forget about wars and family obligations and trust issues. I want to feel something other than fear and uncertainty.
I want to feel alive.
His jacket hits the floor, followed by his shirt. I run my hands over his chest, mapping the scars that tell the story of a violent life. He's beautiful in a dangerous way, all sharp angles and controlled strength.
"Your turn," he says, voice rough with want.
I reach for the hem of my dress and pull it over my head. His breath catches when he sees me, like I'm something he's been waiting his whole life to find.
