Sam pressed her mouth to Braeden’s maw, her lips mashed against his teeth. He growled low in his throat, his mouth stretched open wide as though he wanted to devour her. As he ground his jaw against hers, she cut her lip on his sharpened incisors, her blood trickling into their joined mouths. Braeden’s tongue snuck out to swipe at her bottom lip, lapping up the coppery liquid. Sam gasped in shock at the touch of his tongue, her mouth opening under his.

And then he was kissing her back, violently, his lips molding over hers, his tongue thrusting inside her mouth. His hands left her waist and tangled in her hair, pulling her closer until she stood flush against him. He nipped at her lips, his nibbles just shy of painful, and then he cupped her face in his clawed hands and kissed her deeply.

Sam’s eyes drifted closed. When she opened her eyes again, she knew what she would have to do, but until then, she would allow herself to get lost in the moment, to be with Braeden as a woman with a man, without the complications of the Paladins, secrets, or broken tattoos. Her free hand flattened against his chest, and she leaned into him, deepening their kiss.

Braeden growled again, tasting her everywhere—her lips, her tongue, her teeth. Sam felt an answering hunger low in her belly, and her tongue entwined with his until all she could see and feel and think was Braeden. Sam had never felt like this before, the sensations overwhelming. Her breath merged with Braeden’s, and they breathed as one, in short, desperate gasps. The wildness that infected Braeden spread into her, and together, they were savage beasts, clawing to get closer to one another. Braeden’s nails bit into her cheeks and her knife sunk deeper into his neck as she dragged her free hand from his chest to around his neck, and then scratched down his broad back. This -- thing -- between them didn’t smolder; it burned like fallen leaves set aflame.

“Sam.”

The sigh of her name was so quiet that at first Sam thought she’d imagined it, but it was enough to bring her back down to earth, to remind her that when this kiss ended, she had a duty to fulfill. She squeezed her eyes tighter, unwilling to open them to the inevitable.

The kiss between them gentled, still urgent, but soft, almost reverent. Their lips lingered, and then pulled apart. Sam opened her eyes, ignoring the wetness that rolled down her cheeks. “Goodbye, Braeden,” she whispered again, and re-angled the knife, readying to drive it home.

Braeden’s hand wrapped around hers. “I believe this is mine,” he said, and tugged at the knife—his knife. A small, crooked smile curved his lips, and his eyes, now clear, were bright with some foreign emotion.

The knife dropped from her hands, clattering to the floor. Sam launched herself at Braeden with so much force that he stumbled backwards, taking her with him as they fell into a graceless clump.

She grasped his face with both hands. “Braeden? Can you understand me? Are you really okay?”

“Aye.”

The single word was like a balm to her soul, and she gave him a quick, bruising kiss. “Thank the gods,” she said, and then she punched him hard in the stomach. “Don’t you ever do that to me again, do you hear me? The next time, I’ll kill you, I swear it.”

Braeden nodded towards the discarded knife. “You almost killed me just now.”

Sam’s face crumpled, and she had to grit her teeth to fight back the tears, gods damn her stupid, female emotions. “Do you think I wanted to do it? I thought you were gone. I thought you had slipped over the precipice and weren’t coming back. What should I have done?”

“You should have killed me,” Braeden said matter-of-factly, rolling onto his side. He brushed his thumb against her cheek. “But I’m glad that you didn’t.”

Now that she was no longer swept up in the moment, his tender gesture caught her off guard, and she flinched against his touch. Braeden dropped his hand immediately. “You kissed me,” he accused.

Sam looked away, embarrassed. “You kissed me back.”

“Why? Did you think it would save me?”

Sam snorted. “I’m not some romantic fool who believes in the restorative power of a kiss. I thought I was saying goodbye.”

Braeden arched a brow. “Do you always say goodbye like that?”

Her cheeks heated with mortification, and she punched him again. “Can’t you just forget about it?”

Braeden’s mouth flattened, and he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. He held his hand out to her. “You want to pretend it never happened?” She nodded, taking his hand and letting him pull her to her feet.

“Fine,” he said, his tone inscrutable. “Then I’ll forget this, too.” He jerked her roughly to him, tilted her chin up, and brushed his mouth against hers. He pulled back from the kiss. “It’s forgotten,” he breathed into her mouth, and then released her, stalking to the other end of the small room.

And that was how Tristan found them, Sam on one side of the room and Braeden on the other, with one pallet between them, the other scattered in ruins across the floor. He barged in, flooding the dim room with light. “What in the name of the seven gods is going on in here?” he bellowed.

Sam and Braeden jumped like guilty conspirators. “N-nothing, Tristan,” Sam stammered, hoping that the shadowy light was poor enough to hide her blush. Her mind was still awhirl and her heart beat like a drum in her chest. Gods, she was a hypocrite -- she’d told Braeden to forget they ever kissed, yet his last kiss replayed over and over again in her head, her toes curling involuntarily at the memory.

Tristan’s voice snapped her out of her reverie. “Braeden, why are you out of bed? Where is your bed?”

Braeden kicked at a piece of straw that had sprung free from his former mattress. “We had an incident.”

Tristan crossed his arms. “I can see that. You promised the surgeon you would rest.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Sam blurted. “Well, not entirely. You see, his tattoo…” she trailed off. It wasn’t her story to tell. Besides, she didn’t know what happened to him, not really.

Braeden sighed, sinking against the wall. “It was as I forewarned you. Something incited the demon within me, and with the tampered seal, I couldn’t put it back in its cage.”

Tristan stepped further into the room, stopping before Sam. He touched his index finger to the side of her jaw. “You’re bleeding,” he said. He turned to Braeden. “Did you do this?”

“Aye,” Braeden said, his voice little above a whisper. “I lost control. I could have killed Sam. My demon wanted Sam very, very badly, and I couldn’t fight it.”

“But you did,” Sam said. “You didn’t kill me. You fought it and you won.”

Braeden barked a short laugh. “I didn’t fight it. We found common ground.” His gaze held hers intently. “We both wanted the same thing.”

Tristan looked between the two of them, his brow furrowing. Sam shuddered to think what his reaction would have been had he walked in on them just a few minutes earlier. She wondered if he would have killed Braeden if he were in her position. He certainly wouldn’t have kissed him. “You appear to be in control now,” Tristan said slowly. “What of your wound? Does it still hurt?”

“Perhaps a little,” Braeden admitted. He weaved through the room towards them, twisting his arm so they could more easily see his wound. The infected surface area had shrunk significantly, which surprised Sam—the way Braeden’s body had expanded and distorted should have stretched the wound wider. Now, the black, mummified flesh that had covered half of the lion’s head had thinned out into a line, splitting his tattoo vertically into equal halves.

Tristan grasped Braeden’s elbow gently and peered at his shoulder. “It looks better, I’ll give you that. But your skin is hot to the touch and you still look feverish.” He tilted his head, considering. “Braeden, do you think what happened between you and Sam will happen again?”

Sam choked, and pretended to cough to hide her embarrassment. “Sorry,” she wheezed. “Got a bug in my throat.” Idiot, she berated herself mentally. Tristan hadn’t meant their kiss.

“No, I don’t think so,” Braeden said, his eyes fixed on hers. Was he talking about kissing her or trying to kill her? Not that it mattered -- his answer should have been no either way.

“Then let me ask you this one more time--and I promise it’s the last I’ll ask it of you,” Tristan said. “Will you reconsider removing part of your tattoo?”

Braeden took a long time to reply. “Give me the rest of tonight,” he said at last. “If by morn I haven’t significantly improved, I’ll do it.”

Sam released a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. It had taken him nearly killing her and her nearly killing him, but Braeden had finally decided to be sensible. Maybe he had started to believe in himself, or maybe he just assumed the damage had already been done. Whatever his reason, Sam got what she wanted—Braeden alive.

“Fair,” Tristan said. “The night, or what’s left of it, is yours. I suggest you stay in bed.” He picked up a piece of the straw that was strewn about the room. “Guess you’ll have to share one.” And on that parting note, Tristan exited the room, oblivious to the distress he left them in.