But then duty had intervened and destiny had conspired to throw them apart. Only to hurl them back together. The symbolism of the current moment was not lost on her. Not that he was flirting or kissing her fingers. Even now, the memory of his lips on her skin was so fresh that a rash of gooseflesh broke out on her arms.

Huffing a shallow breath, she almost snatched her hand away.

“Does that hurt?” he asked, glancing up.

Sarani forced herself not to give away her roiling emotions or the lie that left her lips. “Some.”

Reaching for more clean linen strips, he added some salve from a jar and expertly bandaged her palms. “There. Better?”

“Yes, thank you,” she whispered.

Rhystan stood upright but made no move to step away, instead caging her with his arms on either side of her hips on the desk. Her newly bound and dressed palms sat cradled in her lap, a puny barrier to the tension that was unspooling between them. Had he been thinking about the last time he’d held her hands as well? Nothing showed in his expression—no softening in those hard, inscrutable eyes.

But still he stared.

Their breaths loud in the silence, the duke studied her face in wordless fascination while she did the same. Relearning him. Remapping his features. Taking in the maturity of his stern bristled jaw and the dissolute curve of his mouth. Oh, that mouth… It had known hers intimately. Tasted her skin, sipped at her hands, her neck, the slope of her cleavage.

With a blush, Sarani wrenched her eyes away to trace his strong, bold nose, the arch of his cheekbones, and those darkened, storm-hued irises. Silky blond-brown hair streaked gold by the sun framed his cheeks and curled into his brow, and her injured hands ached to sweep it away.

Her tongue darted out to lick dry lips, and his stare returned there. Within a heartbeat, the tension humming between them spiked and ignited, spreading like wildfire over spilled oil. Rhystan’s sharpened gaze turned hot and desirous, scorching her, making her breasts tighten and lust settle between her thighs. Heavens, she wanted to be consumed. She wanted to burn.

Sarani didn’t know if it was out of gratitude or desire or madness. She didn’t care. She was hurt, scared, and she wanted comfort. She wanted him.

Shoving to the points of her toes, she collided her lips with his.

Nine

The scent of jasmine burned like incense through Rhystan’s senses.

Her lips. Her soft, lush, wet mouth. The subject of a thousand erotic fantasies. Breaking him apart like a hammer to glass. Sweetness and sin. Darkness and desire. Virtue and vice wound indecently together, addling his brain and hardening his body in equal measure. The divergent combination had always been his undoing—the wellspring of his strength and the secret to his ruin. It had always been her.

He’d made himself forget.