My chin wobbles. My throat is so tight. “I’m sorry.”

And Rhys is already coming for me. Barreling toward me across the kitchen, but I’m not afraid. I’m gasping with relief, arms reaching up for him as he plucks me from my chair and sets me on the table.

He presses his hips between my legs. Surrounds me with his strong arms, crushes my body against his chest, and buries his face in the crook of my neck.

“Cariad,” Rhys says, muffled by my hair. “Fuck.”

“I know.” My nose is running against his shirt. Ew. “Oh god, I’m sorry.”

“You nearly killed an old man. Nearly gave me a heart attack.”

My laugh is watery. “You’re not old.”

We cling together for long moments, the adrenaline seeping from our limbs. I can feel his heartbeat thudding beneath his shirt, slow and sure and steady.

“So where are we going?” I say at last, gripping two handfuls of flannel shirt. “Somewhere pretty?”

Rhys nods, his beard tickling my neck. “I don’t know yet, but somewhere pretty. Somewhere with a beach or an old wood. And somewhere far, far away from this poisonous valley.” He smooths my hair back, pressing a hot, whiskery kiss to my throat. “You can choose, cariad. Where you go, I go.”

“Where you go, I go,” I repeat, the words a balm to my sore, battered heart. As family mottoes go, it’s not bad.

And we will be a family. Maybe we are one already, and I didn’t even notice. Was too busy guarding my heart, and doing a piss poor job of it.

“Rhys?”

He’s mouthing at my jaw, slow and lazy. “Hm?”

I squeeze his hips with my thighs. “Does this mean you’re ready to bend me over this table?”

His laugh starts somewhere low in his belly. His giant shoulders shake, and it’s like clinging to a mountainside in an earthquake. I hold on for dear life, biting my lip at every thrilling vibration.

“Gwen,” he rasps at last, big hands gripping my thighs. Kneading and rubbing through my skirt. “I’ve been ready to do that for months.”

Despite his words, the blacksmith takes his time. He kisses me silly for what feels like hours, fingers sliding through my frizzy hair, sucking my tongue and nipping at my bottom lip. And when I’m breathless and wriggling, shifting my weight against the scrubbed wooden table, he palms my breasts. Weighs and kneads and rubs at them. Pinches my nipples through my top until I mewl.

And we’ve done this a few times now. Kissed and touched. Licked and tasted.

But it’s not enough, not for today. Today, I need to feel every inch of him. I need the blacksmith pressing into me, pushing me down, claiming me for his own. Maybe we should do this in a bed and face to face, sweet and traditional, but the thing is, I don’t feel sweet in this moment. I feel needy and raw.

My palms shove against his chest, and Rhys steps back. I hop down, basking in the searing hunger on his face, then spin around and brace my hands on the table.