Or.

“Crier,” she said. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” said Crier.

“Do you want this war to end?”

Crier’s brow furrowed. “Yes. Of course.”

“All right.” Ayla let out a shaky breath. She looked up at Crier, their faces so close together she could see the flecks of gold in Crier’s eyes, the inhuman smoothness of her skin. This person Ayla had come to know so well. This person she trusted with her life, with everything in her. This person she would follow into a black labyrinth, a battlefield. How did I not know? she wondered, searching Crier’s face. If anger is a powder bomb, this is a hearth fire. This is—

“I have an idea,” said Ayla, voice sounding faraway to her own ears. Was she leaning closer? Was Crier? Their noses were almost brushing, she could feel Crier’s breath on her lips, she was breathing in the scent of her, salt lavender and sea. “It’s dangerous. It might not work.”

“I’m in,” said Crier.

“Oh, hell,” said Ayla, and kissed her.

The first time they’d kissed, it had been: Wild. Hot and messy and desperate, hands clutching at clothes and tangling in hair, gripping so tight it hurt, mouths working furiously, bodies crashing into each other, Ayla’s back hitting the wall, Crier’s fingernails digging into the soft skin behind her ears, both of them gasping from shock or pain or anger or a combination of all three and then a hundred other white-hot, electric feelings flaring between them and disappearing just as quick when reality flooded back in. The first time they’d kissed, Ayla had wrenched away from it and hated herself for days, weeks; she’d replayed it over and over in her head and hated herself for that, too. She’d tried so hard to forget how it felt: Crier’s fingers in her hair, Crier’s taste like a drop of honey on her tongue, the hollow sound of their teeth knocking together, how it only made her want to press in deeper. She had tried so hard to forget, only to find that forgetting was impossible.

This, though.

This, right here, right now.

If their first kiss had been unforgettable, the words for this one hadn’t been invented yet.

Ayla kissed Crier, and this time she focused on memorizing everything she hadn’t cared about last time. The shape of Crier’s mouth. The fullness of it beneath her own. The way Crier drew in a slow breath through her nose as if trying to calm herself. The way she went Automa-still, as if afraid any sudden movement would bring Ayla to her senses, as if this wasn’t the best choice Ayla had made in her whole damn life, as if this didn’t make more sense than anything. For a moment, neither of them moved. The kiss was soft, close-mouthed, a brushing of lips, a flicker of breath. Then Ayla just—broke. She pulled away just far enough to take a breath and then pushed in again, pressing a second kiss to Crier’s mouth, firmer this time, a question or an answer or a reaffirmation or everything at once, it didn’t even matter, because Crier’s lips parted in a wordless yes, and the kiss bloomed into something hot and bright, something Ayla felt in every inch of her body, toes curling in her boots. Now Ayla was reaching up, sliding her shaking hands into Crier’s hair. Now she was shifting to straddle the bench so she could face Crier head-on, get the angle just right. One of Crier’s arms curled around Ayla’s back, drawing her somehow closer. They melted into a series of deep, lush kisses, hot and dizzying and endless, lips moving together, Crier’s mouth opening beneath Ayla’s, the taste of her like summer rain. Ayla pushed into her over and over again, taking her mouth, already addicted to this, to her, to Crier, everything about her, taste and scent and the warmth of her skin under Ayla’s hands. In the end it was Crier who drew back, shuddering. Overwhelmed. Her mouth was swollen, the shine of Ayla’s kiss on her lower lip. She swallowed hard; Ayla’s eyes tracked the movement of her throat.