Page 52 of Sworn to the Shadow Throne

“Rowan…” Her voice wavered, in worry or something else, I didn’t know. “Don’t leave tonight. Rest. Recover. Please.”

Every wall I’d built over the years—against betrayal, against loneliness, against hope—cracked in a single heartbeat because she was looking at me like she wanted me too.

Chapter 15

Lunette

I’d begged him to stay. Please tasted as bitter as an unripe crabapple.

Pathetic, Luna. He’s probably had a hundred women throw themselves at him just like this.

I tried to convince myself that it was only concern over his wound that had made me do it, but deep down, I knew the truth. Loneliness was driving me mad. That was why I’d confessed my sins to him even though he hadn’t asked about the worst of it. Because my heart ached for someone to share it with. It had been so much safer before he’d arrived on my doorstep.

I didn’t know his name or where he’d come from, yet I was inexplicably drawn to him. And I couldn’t control my racing heart around him, no matter how hard I tried.

Rowan hadn’t yet opened his eyes, but he said, “Lunette, I—”

“You ripped open your stitches,” I interrupted, hating how defensive my voice sounded. “Without treatment, your skin will pull whenever you lift a sword.”

Solid. Logical. Didn’t sound like pining at all.

I thought for certain he would remove his hand from mine, but his thumb found its way across it instead, stroking lightly, tiny, pleasant sparks lighting between us with every movement. I forgot to breathe long enough that I had to cover my sharp intake of breath.

His eyes opened slowly, the pain in them ebbing as my magic receded. The irritation or even disgust at being trapped here with me for one more night wasn’t there, as I’d feared. Only that same disarming softness that made my heart forget how to beat. And something else, something I hoped wasn’t my silly mind trying to make my fantasy real: longing.

I offered a weak smile, my heart a tangled knot of shame and desperate hope.

“Lunette,” he said, voice hoarse, “I would get hurt a thousand times if it meant protecting you.”

That wasn’t a safe thing to say to me. I already felt myself falling.

I couldn’t look away. Not when he looked at me like I meant something, like I was wanted, for once. Rowan lifted his hand, hesitated for one heartbeat then settled two fingers under my chin and tilted it up toward him.

Only then did the position I was in strike me: still kneeling between his legs, hands under his shirt, like my body had chosen where it wanted to be before my mind dared. The cold from the floor had started to seep into my skin, but he was warm enough that I didn’t need to move—not while his attention held me so completely.

Gods. I fought to control my trembling spine, but it was like trying to still a bowstring that had already been loosed. The thought of rising to my feet slowly, of raking my hands up his bare torso became a fire in every muscle.

“Please don’t kneel for me,” he murmured, voice as rough as gravel. His thumb brushed along my cheekbone, and my eyelids fluttered closed.

Dangerous.

When he removed his fingers, I feared I’d lost that new, fragile connection to him forever. But they only moved to my wrist—featherlight, hesitant, but still sparking awareness along every nerve. “Please, Lunette.”

As if that mattered when the feel of his touch was humming through me like the sweetest music. Still, the plea in his voice undid me more than a command ever could.

His thumb stroked the inside of my wrist, slow and careful, the roughness of his skin sending a thrill up my arm. He was right. I should put distance between us before I did something unwise.

“I need to see that you’re okay,” Rowan said, softer, another stroke of his fingers forcing me to hide a shiver.

And just like that, the familiar urge to vanish dissolved, and in its place, a wave of impossible peace washed over me.

Gods…maybe I wasn’t the only one feeling like being a bit foolish was exactly what I wanted.

With steady, patient pressure, he coaxed me upward until I found myself seated on the edge of the bed beside him, close enough that the warmth radiating from his body made my skin tingle with a thousand tiny electric jolts.

“Better,” he whispered, still holding onto me.

His hand withdrew slowly, almost reluctantly, to settle against his thigh. But his eyes—as dark and rich as winter wine—remained fixed on my face, searching, questioning, wanting.