I squealed, water splashing and engulfing my lower body as Scythe climbed back into the tub and took me with him. I slipped over his waist and chest. “Stars, are you insane?”

A grumble vibrated against my cheek as he pulled me close. “Apparently.”

“I do think so.” Sensing his meaning, I leaned back, the half-drenched tunic heavy and pulling. “I’ll bet you’ve never kept anything this long.”

His silence as he eyed my chest, then the fingers I dunked into the remnants of my wine, made me feel foolish for saying such a thing. Lifting my fingers from the glass, I dragged one down his bicep, tracing the dips and bulges as I memorized each patch of smooth skin.

Aimlessly, I continued to collect and spread the wine over every exposed part of him. The dark hairs upon his chest tickled beneath the pads of my fingers, the slow rhythmic pound of his heart calming my frayed thoughts.

His voice had thickened. “Do you not approve of the wine?”

“I approve so vehemently that I long to share it with something else I approve of.” Fluttering my lashes, I added softly, “And rather highly at that.”

His grin dazzled and doomed.

I forced myself to look away, though touching him was just as dangerous. Remaining still and relaxing more with every moment, despite the hunger that never seemed to want to leave us, he watched me quietly while I painted him with the vanilla frosted wine.

I liked it, existing without constant chatter of plans and worries and reassurances.

I tried and failed to remember the last time I was able to feel so at ease, and I struggled to figure out how that was even possible when just breathing the same air as this warrior wolf bubbled all the blood within me. When he was nothing I was allowed to keep.

He was both comfort and chaos. A threat to everything I thought I was.

And nothing I could conquer.

He demanded my surrender—and whether that be good or bad, he had no unearthly idea.

My mind quieted more with every gentle breath he expelled and every inch of skin I covered. My eyes traced the gooseflesh left in the wake of my eager fingers.

Scythe knocked me from the unexpected peace with a rough, “Who wounded your soul, wildflower?” His hands molded to my hips. “Tell me their name, and I’ll make sure it’s wiped from history.”

I smiled, but I didn’t dare meet his gaze as I thought about how to answer that. “It was my own foolish expectations, I suppose.”

He said nothing for long moments. As though knowing I did not wish to talk about it, he gently squeezed my hips, his shockingly soft statement causing my eyes to sting. “Expect me to never hurt any part of you.”

“Scythe.” I stilled, growing both warm and chilled.

But he shushed me and said, “You’re an artist.”