Forbidden Warrior (Midsummer Knights)

He could.

But they could give her what he could not: a home.

Cassia awoke with a start.

She stared uncomprehendingly into a misty world that was slowly taking shape in gray and misted pinks. Dawn moved through the air in fog and color, damp and slippery sweet as her dreams had been.

Dreams of Máel.

Be sure.

Oh, she’d been very, very sure.

Madness.

She realized his body was not beside her. He was gone. A bolt of fear shot through her. She sat up fast. Layers of blankets spilled to her lap. She shoved a tangle of hair off her face and looked around. “Máel?”

“I am here.”

And this was the maddest thing of all: how excitement coursed through her at the sound of his voice. At the assurance he was, in fact, here.

He stood a few feet away, loading packs on his horse.

Their eyes met. She opened her mouth, then shut it again and held her breath. What was there to say? What did he think of her now? What did she think of her?

She thought she was a woman who’d found a man who knew how to have an adventure.

But adventures, however thrilling they might be, were passing things. One could not live a life filled with them: it was not realistic. It was certainly not proper.

It was absolutely not possible.

But notwithstanding all the certainty and sureness, she watched Máel with bated breath, waiting. Hoping…

She did not even know what she was hoping for. But neither had she known last night, and Máel had shown her precisely what she aspired to.

So she waited now, hoping for something she did not understand.

He met her eye and tipped his head to the side with half-closed eyes. Then he blew out a breath and shook his head slowly.

She straightened. He was going to tell her something. Something about what had happened last night. Something about what it had not meant to him.

For a few beats of her heart, he said nothing.

But she knew what he was not saying.

That last night didn’t matter. That nothing mattered. That there was no hope for anything like what they’d experienced. That all was lost and defiled, even last night, and she felt quite furious, imagining all the things he was not going to say.

“Lass—”

“I was sure.”

He stopped. Her words were hard. Strong and direct. She’d never spoken in such a way before. So blunt. So forthright.

It felt quite wonderful.

Even if she was still furious at all the things he’d been not going to say.

She rose from the blankets, keeping one unevenly around her shoulders. His gaze dragged down her body with a focused male look of desire.