At first, that was all Madeleine could think. Hæra’s mouth was so warm, a point of heat and delight that drew the wind’s chill from Madeleine’s bones.

Gentle, too. Such gentleness, from the woman who’d scooped up Madeleine in her arms—had it only been that morning?—with astonishing strength. Soft lips, followed by a puff of breath against Madeleine’s own mouth. A tender hand on the side of her face.

Then the hand moved.

Swift as a riptide, it moved from Madeleine’s cheek to the back of her neck, curling possessively around her. Madeleine’s warmth flamed to the heat of an inferno as Hæra wrapped her other arm around her waist, dragging her even closer. Then Hæra’s mouth opened and the kiss changed into something else entirely.

She wasn’t kissing Madeleine. She was devouring her.

There was no other word for it. Hæra kissed her like she was starving, and Madeleine was a feast she’d seen through a window and broken in to take. And she wouldn’t finish taking until she was sated, no matter what anyone had to say about it.

So why Madeleine was throwing her arms around Hæra’s neck was a mystery. Not one to be solved—a mystery like they’d spoken of before, a divine one, integral to who she was. Here, in Hæra’s unrelenting embrace, Madeleine stumbled over all her questions and, finally, into herself.

She kissed Hæra back wildly. It was what her mouth had been made to do. Not to mouth prayers or stammer excuses, but to kiss this woman. Her breasts pressed just beneath Hæra’s own, their bodies fit together perfectly, they aligned without a molecule of air to interfere between them.

And the ache from her dream returned in full force, as if it had only been lying in wait. In a breath’s space, she became an empty vessel, hollowed out and absent her purpose until she was filled. She cried out softly.

Hæra opened her mouth, and the kiss grew deeper, and deeper. Madeleine dug her fingers into Hæra’s strong shoulders, feeling as wobbly as when she’d fallen to the floor this morning. She couldn’t fall. Not if falling would end this, the moment in which she was finally coming to life.

She didn’t have to worry. Hæra wouldn’t let her fall. Hæra was pushing her back toward the alley wall, between two planters, until Madeleine’s back was pressed against leaves. No roses here, no thorns, only the soft rustle of ivy. And yet the scent of flowers filled the air, along with Hæra’s own scent—salt and sea.

“Yes,” Hæra breathed, “yes.”

“Yes—” It broke from Madeleine in a moan.