A rustle of fabric and a faint, exhaled epithet toward the back of the tent made Gwen twist abruptly, then let out a hiss as the movement sent pain shooting down from her shoulder and ribs. Someone had pulled up a couple of tent pegs and was pushing at the fabric of the wall itself. Then the back of the tent lifted enough to admit a slight emerald-clad form that popped into the space. Isobelle looked up, her cheeks flushed, her breathing harsh—she’d been running. Her eyes were shining.

Her eyes . . .

Gwen’s breath caught, all her newfound certainty crystalizing into one single, ringing truth as she gazed at the other girl. Hands shaking, she reached up, fumbling with her helmet.

“Help me, will you?” Gwen managed hoarsely, a breathless sound of laughter and frustration escaping her.

Isobelle sprang forward, her hands nearly as clumsy as Gwen’s—finally, they managed to get the thing off, and Isobelle tossed it aside to land on the grass with a thump without taking her eyes from Gwen’s face.

They stood that way, both gazes searching, both panting for breath. Isobelle was leaning against her, one of her hands curled around the top edge of Gwen’s armor, keeping hold of her. Gwen bit her lip, feeling blood rush to the spot; she saw Isobelle’s gaze flick down, dwell on her mouth, flick back up again.

There was a question in those blue, blue eyes—or, perhaps, the answer to a question.

Isobelle’s grip on her armor tightened, pulling Gwen down, or levering herself up, and she tilted her face to Gwen’s.

Isobelle’s lips were soft and tentative, but Gwen found herself paralyzed. She was so used to holding back around Isobelle that her dizzy mind could barely understand what was happening, how to let go again. She was holding her breath, afraid to move, to wake up from this dream—then Isobelle’s lips moved on hers, caressing, parting slightly.

Gwen gasped for breath with an audible half-swallowed sound and leaned into the kiss, her own mouth parting, falling into Isobelle like some poor, foolish creature walking into a faerie spell. Isobelle raised her other hand and cupped Gwen’s cheek, her fingers warm and possessive on her skin.

Gwen stepped into her, or tried to, realizing with a jolt that she was still wearing her armor, a cold metal barrier between them. Isobelle, reading her mind, had begun to scrabble helplessly at the straps, her breathing coming in quick, sharp pants.

“This one,” Gwen gasped, reaching for the buckle at her side, realizing she still had her gauntlets on, and then trying to remove them without any space between her and Isobelle.