By the time she had the cursed things off, Isobelle had gotten the buckle at her side free and was trying to pull the armor off over Gwen’s head. Gwen, with a gasp of laughter and frustration, slid one arm through the chest piece—Isobelle, realizing she was tugging in the wrong direction, let go so Gwen could manage it and burst into breathless laughter.

“This,” Isobelle giggled, panting, “goes a lot more smoothly in the ballads.”

Gwen, gritting her teeth against the pain shooting through her shoulder, shrugged the chest piece off and let it fall to the ground beside them. “That’s because the ballads draw a nice, socially acceptable veil across this portion of the story.”

Isobelle was already back up against her, and Gwen slid her good arm around her waist—but then she paused, biting her lip, looking down at the flushed features, the reddened lips. She felt her own heart pounding in her chest as hard as it had when she faced down her opponent in the joust.

“Isobelle . . .” Gwen managed, but there she stopped, words failing her. There were so many things she wanted to say, and they all rushed her at once, leaving her breathlessly trying to separate one thought from another.

Isobelle’s eyes had gone to her mouth when Gwen bit her lip, but now they slid back up again, meeting her gaze. “Don’t change your mind now,” she whispered, eyes flicking back and forth as she searched Gwen’s. “I . . . I’m sorry it took me so long to make up my own.”

Gwen curled her fingers against Isobelle’s lower back, noticing with wonder the way Isobelle responded to that touch, leaning harder against her. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” she managed, grateful to have one thread to follow through the knotted tangle of things she wanted to tell the girl in front of her. “I’ve always known who I liked, who I wanted, and . . . it’s still scary for me.”

The truth of that admission tightened her throat, making it impossible for her to say more.

Isobelle brushed her thumb along Gwen’s cheekbone, her gaze understanding, for she knew about Gwen’s past, had seen it at the village bonfire. Gwen lifted her other hand, now free of its metal gauntlet, and slid her fingers into Isobelle’s hair. Isobelle drew in a quaking breath, her eyes darkening. Gwen could feel the tension building in Isobelle’s body, a tiny shiver up her spine that ended in a soft, muffled sound of longing.

They broke their stillness together, at the same time, meeting for a kiss that held no uncertainty this time, only a silent agreement to set their fears aside for as long as they could make this moment last.

Chapter Thirty-One
Did that really just happen?

None of Isobelle’s practice had ever prepared her for how truly glorious proper kissing was.