He stroked his fingers over the heat in my cheeks and smirked. “Kiss me.” I rose onto my toes and pressed my lips to his. He breathed me in, his mouth parting but otherwise still beneath mine. Pulling back, he brushed his lips across my cheek as he whispered, “I want to hear it anyway.”

“My singing?” I asked, confused as he kicked off his boots at the door.

“Every sound you make, every single thing you do…” He stalked to the bathing room. “Need it all.”

He left me there with my ears echoing the stalled, thunderous beat of my heart, a sponge still in my hand. I stared down at it, then back at the hall, unsure how so few words—such simple statements—could burrow deeper than years of heartfelt proclamations.

Irritated, but knowing it had nothing to do with the wolf, I squeezed every drop of water from the sponge as if it were a different male’s heart. Only when my fingers cramped did I take a deep breath and force myself to take a few more.

I set the sponge on the windowsill and washed my hands, then snatched the book from the armchair and took it with me to Scythe’s bedchamber while he bathed.

He entered, damp and naked, some minutes later. “What’s got you bothered?”

How he even knew… I shook my head. “Nothing,” I said and withheld a sigh as I turned the page, though I hadn’t read a word. I’d been waiting. Waiting and stewing and uncomfortable in my own skin.

Scythe huffed and dumped a dagger upon the nightstand. Gently, he plucked the book from my hands and climbed onto the bed with grace a creature of his size should not have. He patted his lap, and I shook my head again.

He raised a brow but didn’t argue as I lay beside him instead.

Opening to where we’d last read to, he stared at the page a long moment before asking, “Was it what I said?” At my scrunched expression, he scratched the thickening stubble at his jaw. “The singing comment.”

“No,” I said instantly.

Seeming so adorably uncertain, Scythe looked down at me with a furrowed brow. “I know I should be more careful, but I didn’t mean to…”

“Careful?”

He waved a hand, groaning with his sigh. “I shouldn’t use honesty as an excuse to be an asshole.”

Unable to help it, I laughed and sat up. I took the book and set it on the bed, then pulled the blankets down and his legs open to fit between them. “You’re not an asshole.”

The wolf smirked. “No lies, wildflower.”

“You’re not,” I said, crawling over him to push my nose to his. “Not to me, anyway. I was not offended. I can’t sing, but I like doing it, so all that matters is that you like hearing it.”