"Atreyu, I want to help you," I murmur when the emotions start to quiet.
"You will."
"So far I think I've caused you a lot more heartache."
"In many ways," he says, his chuckle making the chest beneath my hand rumble. "I understand what it is to be thrust into a position you had no choice about."
"You are this weird mix of batshit, mass-murdering crazy in battle and super sweet when we're alone. I can't figure you out," I say.
"And you are sometimes a battle-witch and sometimes worse than any page I have trained."
"I like everything about you except that sense of humor!" Irked with him once more, I lift my head and push at his chest.
"Quiet," he rumbles. "I am enjoying having you in my arms, Naia."
God I love the way he says my name. That easily, he manages to melt my frustration. I relax and tuck my head back where it feels natural, in the nape of his neck. I want to do what my cats do and nuzzle him, rub my cheeks and hands all over him in what I'm pretty sure is a feline expression of ownership.
Hollowness has settled into my heart, and my chest aches in response. The mess with Jason seems distant and irrelevant, like it happened ten years ago instead of ten days. There's no comparing breaking up with someone who made me feel bad about myself with helping someone this incredible save his world.
When I start to think too deeply about how I was destined to get sucked into a book, I get a mild headache reminiscent of a wine hangover.
"There is naught about you that is not beautiful, even your tears," he whispers.
Then you need glasses. I'm instantly angry at myself for not being able to enjoy one tiny moment with him. Banishing the negative thoughts born of lifelong insecurity, I decide to accept his compliment and pretend the most handsome, bravest, and sexiest man ever means what he says.
It feels . . . good. As strong as the urge to cry was, only like a bubble of happiness.
"Is your determination to remain honorable this night intact?" he adds, amusement in his tone.
I hesitate, my physical body humming with desire. His muscular frame is pressed to mine and images of him naked flash through my thoughts. I know how thick his biceps are and the shape of the muscles of his back and chest, how round and perfect that ass of his is. And his thighs . . .
The hollow between my thighs has been wet and hot since we lay down together, and the fact he's flat out offering to make love to me . . .