“I did.” She laughed into Brella’s shoulder, hiding the inevitable red flush she felt drip from her scalp to her collarbones. “But what if I’d been distracted? What if one of my superiors was old-fashioned and found out and they had a problem with it?” And what if she loved, and that love made her see . . .

“I get it.” Brella left a line of smoothing kisses along Scratch’s brow, which she realized then had been furrowed. “Do you not want to do this now, then? Take it slow?”

Fear gripped her. “I do not want to take it slow.”

Brella laughed, and it was such a relief to hear. Better than the horns that had heralded the King’s Guard’s return after they had taken the Wilds, the trumpet blares that meant she was home. “Then how about I take the lead, and if you don’t like anything, you can say?”

Scratch nodded mutely and let herself fall. Brella was everywhere. Her body, skin freckled and warm, her hands smooth and strong. Her eyes were inescapable, hot as a brand, burning her impression into every inch of Scratch’s skin.

It felt good, better than good, but that wasn’t the miracle of it. The miracle was that it was Brella: clever and keen, angry and just and protective. The woman who used her mouth and hands to destabilize a nation, now using those same bits of flesh and magic to soothe Scratch, to care for her, to lick and suck and touch. Her voice, low and resonant, calling for justice and action, now moaning and humming and speaking low, caring words of encouragement, “Just like that, Scratch. Yes. I have you.” Brella, a liar and a sneak, doing something so very true.

Scratch was lost in it. She had done so much to make her name mean something and here, in this moment, none of that mattered. This was her body, small and pale and blue-veined; white skin that flushed and bruised; icy blond hair. Brella stroked and bit, bringing up redness that clearly pleased her. Brella was pleased by her. Brella, the marvel of her, dappled and nearly inhuman in her strength and confidence, brought to dazed incomprehension by Scratch, whatever Scratch was. Whatever this remade her into.

Brella spoke, and Scratch said Yes. “Can I kiss you there?” Yes. “Can I put my mouth on you?” Yes, yes, yes. And she was rewarded with Brella between her legs, Brella’s lips and tongue on the center of her, working her while she moaned and writhed and cried out, until she came on Brella’s lips—yes, yes, oh gods, yes—in a bright shower of pleasure like sparks off metal.

She drank in Brella’s body, strong and tall, softness spread over gentle hills of muscle. She swallowed. “Will you show me?”

Brella obliged, leading Scratch’s hand between her legs, then placing her own hand above it.