The kiss didn't just deepen, it caught fire. It was a desperate, messy collision of teeth and tongues, a physical manifestation of a bond that had been stretched to the absolute breaking point and survived. Amara felt as though she were being consumed, not by the darkness of the warehouse, but by the sheer, overwhelming presence of the man holding her.
It was a reclamation.
Darien's hands, usually so calculated and cool, were frantic. His palms slid from her jaw to her shoulders, his fingers snagging in the damp silk of the oversized pajamas he'd lent her. He touched her as if he were trying to memorize the texture of her skin, verifying with every stroke that she wasn't a phantom, that she hadn't been lost to the shadows of the river district. His touch was heavy, possessive, and yet underpinned by a tremor he couldn't quite suppress.
