The space he created between us was a physical ache. The air, once thick with the promise of collision, now felt thin and cold. I could still feel the ghost of his body against mine, the imprint of his heat searing through my damp dress.
"Stop?" The word was a broken thing, torn from a place of raw, unfiltered need. "You don't get to… not after that."
A dangerous, wounded sound escaped me. All the years of grief, the polished facade of a life without him, shattered into a thousand glittering shards at my feet. I was not Elara, the resigned wife. I was Elara, the woman who had been half of a wildfire, and I was tired of the cold.
His eyes, molten silver, tracked the tear that escaped down my cheek. "Elara," he warned, his voice a low thrum of strained control.
"No." I stepped into him, my hands fisting in the front of his tunic. The fabric was damp, rough under my fingers. "You lit the match, Riven. You don't get to complain about the burn."
