His jaw ticks, water streaming down his face.
“It’s Bodhi’s, you territorial asshole!”
That answer doesn’t seem to help.
“Are you serious right now?” I unbutton the fucking jacket and tug at the sleeves, but leather is a bitch when wet, and it takes a moment to yank it free. “I ran out of Battle Brief the second Devera clued me in that you’d been wounded. Yes, I left without leave. Then I flew eight hours at breakneck speed with an absolutely irrational Tairn, who thought if you’d been hurt, then Sgaeyl could have been, too. And now you pull some possessive, jealous, whose-jacket-is-that bullshit just because your cousin knew I was so panicked that I wouldn’t stop for my own flight leathers?” I flat-out glare at his nonsensical ass and drop the jacket to the floor. “You can fuck right off!”
A corner of his mouth turns up. “You were worried about me?”
“Not anymore, I’m not.” I see red. How can he find this amusing?
“But you were.” A slow smile spreads across his face, and his eyes light up. “You were worried about me.” He reaches for me.
“Do you think this is funny?” I step back out of his reach only to find the water-slick wall at my back.
“No.” He cocks his head to the side, his smile slipping. “You seem a little angry that I’m not at Malek’s doorstep. Would you rather I be bleeding to death in the infirmary?”
“No!” Of course he doesn’t get it. His life might depend on mine, but he doesn’t feel the way I do about him. He wants me, even said he fell for me, but he’s never said he loves me. “I’m not mad at you for not being hurt. I would never want you hurt. I’m pissed at myself for being so reckless, so wrapped up in you, having such little control over my emotions that I just ran after you like… like…” Like a lovesick little fool. “And you, you’re always calm, collected, and in control. You would have waited for all the information, and you sure as hell never, ever would have let Sgaeyl’s emotions take over—”
My words die as Xaden wrenches up the wet sleeve on his right arm, exposing a puckered, angry red line that stretches from the top of his shoulder to halfway down his biceps. It’s an inch thick at the top and triple that where it ends. He’s obviously been mended, and if the scar is still that raised, he must have almost lost his arm.
“You really were wounded,” I whisper, all the anger falling out of my body. My chest clenches; it must have hurt like hell. “Are you all right?” The question tumbles out even though I’ve just seen him demolish an opponent.
“I’m fine. The scribe’s report must have gone out before the mender arrived from the Eastern Wing.” The scar disappears as he tugs the sleeve back down. “And you’re wrong about me. I wouldn’t have waited for all the information—or even proof—if I’d heard you’d been hurt.” This time, I don’t step away when he reaches for me. His arm winds around my waist, and his hand splays on the small of my back to guide us out of the water’s direct spray. The inches between us are both a gift and a curse as he leans in. “I’m not always calm or collected, and I’m never in control when it comes to you.”
My heart leaps at his words, at the ever-present tension that rises between us, at the awareness that spreads through me from that single touch. It’s not just the water warming me.
“Even now, I’m not doing what I should.” His words come out clipped.
“Which is?”
“Hauling your ass to the mat until you’re a hot, sweaty, aching mess from a dozen rounds of sparring.” His jaw ticks. “Because I warned you never to put your life at risk over something as trivial as talking to me, and yet you did just that. Again.”
“I’m down with everything but the sparring.” Shit. That comes out breathless. “And it’s not up to you to punish me anymore. I’m no longer in your chain of command.”
“Oh, I know. And somehow it was a hell of a lot easier on us both when you were. You want full disclosure when it comes to me, right? How is this for open?” His gaze drops to my mouth. “I would have done the same thing you did because I’m just as reckless for you as you are for me.”
A sharp, sweet ache consumes my chest. Gods, I want to believe that. But I also want more. I want the same three words he demands from me. I run my tongue over my bottom lip, and his eyes flare as steam fills the room.
“You were worried for me.” The first time he said it came out amused. The second sounded happy. But this time, his tone shifts as if it’s a revelation.
“Of course I was worried for you.”
He draws me forward slowly, giving me every chance to object before bringing our bodies flush. The heat of him soaks into every chilled part of me, and all the burning worry I’d felt on the flight here and the searing anger that followed transforms into an entirely different—and far more dangerous—form of heat.
Fuck, I want him. I want to touch every inch of his skin, feel his heartbeat against mine in assurance that he’s really all right. I want his body over me, inside me, as close as humanly possible. I want him to make me forget there’s anything beyond this room or the two of us.
“And you flew here without even stopping to get your leathers.” He lowers his head inch by torturously slow inch.
I nod.
“Because you still love me,” he whispers against my lips a heartbeat before he kisses me. Thank gods he doesn’t wait for my denial, because I’m not sure I have it in me to give one, not with the way he toys with my bottom lip, nipping it gently, then stroking his tongue over the curve. It feels too good, too right, too…everything.
It’s the first time since Aretia that he hasn’t waited for me to ask. The first time his infamous self-control has slipped. The first time he’s gambled with possible rejection, kissed me simply because he wanted to, and fuck, that’s exactly what I need—for him to need me.
I part my lips in invitation not just because I want him, but because he’s acting on a confession I didn’t have to pry out of him or even ask for. He groans, his arms surrounding me, and the kiss becomes exactly what he called himself— reckless. The feel of his tongue flicking against mine, then claiming, stroking, is a flame to a tinderbox, and I catch fire.
Need, lust, desire—whatever it is—dances down my spine and gathers, becoming an insistent ache between my thighs. Rising on my toes to get closer, I loop my arms around his neck, but we’re still not close enough.
His hands work the buttons of my uniform, and I reluctantly relinquish my grip so he can slide it off. It smacks onto the floor somewhere to the left. I tug on his shirt, desperate for the feel of him, and he obliges, grabbing hold of it behind his neck and dragging it overhead, revealing miles and miles of warm, wet skin.
I kiss the scar right above his heart and stroke my hands down his sides, my fingers tracing the hard dips and grooves along his stomach. There is nothing in this world that compares to him. He is complete, utter perfection, his body carved from years of sparring and flight.
“Violet.” He tilts my head and kisses me hard and deep, then slow and soft, changing the pace, keeping me straining for more.