He tossed their belongings near the unlit hearth, not even seeming to notice or care when their supplies spilled out, as he collapsed into the lone chair. He immediately leaned over his knees and began yanking at the ties on his boots.

She approached him slowly, like she might a skittish animal, not sure if he wanted her around or not. It was odd to be irrevocably tied to someone, but still not know simple things about them, like how they preferred to process thoughts, or how they relaxed.

“Let me,” she said softly, lowering herself to kneel at his feet.

She set her hands on his much larger ones, prying them away when he didn’t budge them on his own. She worked the first boot off, taking her time while she analyzed their bond, searching. Anger was his most potent emotion, raw and sharp. But just underneath that—devastation.

“Take it out on me.”

His eyes, which had lowered to watch her hands, flicked up. “What did you say?”

Switching to his other foot, she repeated, “Take it out on me. I can feel it rising in you, Jaren. It’s not going to end well for anyone, including you, if it breaks free. Let me help you.”

He waited until she’d set the second boot next to the chair and lowered his leg before he leaned over her. He was close enough that his breath fanned the stray curls around her ears, but she couldn’t quite place the expression on his face as he looked at her.

“And just how would you like me to take it out on you, little star?”

“I thought—” she felt it then, like a battering ram, as he stared down at her kneeling between his legs. Need.

It was desperate and rough, spearing through her and taking hold until her own arousal joined it, and she couldn’t breathe around the combined potency.

She lurched forward, her hands landing on his thighs to steady her body. A shiver raced down her spine, and she exhaled jaggedly. She’d meant sparring, maybe trading a few punches to raise his adrenaline and release some of his mindless aggression. It hadn’t even occurred to her that sex could have the same outcome for him.

Just because she would have sought to grab a sword and train as her way of coping, didn’t mean that’s what he wanted. What he needed.

An image of that night in Midpath flashed through her mind. When she’d touched him. The look of blissful ecstasy that’d taken over his face as she’d stroked him, the arch of his neck as he’d tipped his head back and cursed. The way his throat had bobbed, and his hands had fisted like it’d taken everything in him to restrain himself.

She shuddered, sliding her hands higher, memorizing the way his muscles felt beneath her palms. Then she pushed up, burying her nerves to the furthest corner of her mind, and brushed her lips along his scruffy jaw, smiling when it tightened in response.