Nerves twisted her stomach into knots, but her longing emboldened her. Would he let her do this? Slowly, uncertainly, she guided his hand upward and laid his palm flat against her cheek. When he didn’t move, when he let her turn to press her lips to the heel of his palm, she gathered up her skirts and slid her knee onto the chair beside his hip.

“Wren.” His voice was exquisite agony, even as he rested his hand on her thigh. “We can’t.”

It would be more self-destructive, more selfish than anything she’d done before. Logic and centuries of bloody Danu-Vesrian wars forbade this. Tomorrow night, the fate of their nations depended on their success. If they succeeded, they’d have peace. And if they failed … Either way, there was no world imaginable that could hold space for them. Wanting him would lead to nothing but ruin in the end. They both knew it. But his expression was darkening, and Wren was powerless against those eyes of his. Even with so little magic, they were weapons.

She and Hal could never be together, and if they might fail tomorrow, why not have this moment? Maybe for tonight, they could forget they were soldiers on opposite sides of a battlefield. For a night, they could set aside everything and just be Hal and Wren. Nothing more or less.

Words snarled up on her tongue, and although she felt small and childish, she managed to whisper, “I know. But I want to. Just this once.”

Hal bowed his head until his nose could rest in the crook of her neck. His sigh was a surrender. “Just once.”

Her body reacted immediately to the sensation of his lips against her skin. A rush of fear that came with letting go—and heat that throbbed within her. Just this once, she wanted to run toward the things that frightened her. She settled into his lap. Neither of them so much as breathed. There was no space between them now, heart to frantically beating heart. There was nothing else to say. So she cradled his jaw in both hands and brushed her lips against his.

The sound he made was one of a man either absolved or damned. His mouth was surprisingly soft against hers—not at all what she expected—but his stubble scraped her chin with every kiss. The newness of the sensation made her shiver. He tasted deep red, like wine. Like the first wild strawberries in spring.

His hands burned a trail from her hips to her waist, up the curves of her rib cage. He touched her like he wanted to savor it, meltingly, maddeningly slowly. Every kiss, every touch snared her thoughts into a tangle of pure need. She was equal parts lost and certain as she fumbled with his cravat until it came loose, as she knotted her fingers into his hair.