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Because he could feel her fear-and holding her close like this, he felt it as acutely as his own.

He searched his mind then for something to say that might comfort her, anything. But all his reassurances sounded hollow, even in his own mind.

And so, he spoke his heart instead. “This is going to be a hard day, Harth. But we have an hour now. So, give me a piece of yourself, and let me give you a piece of me. Tell me, beautiful, if we’d just found each other and we came here because we were normal and mates and... If there weren’t guards outside, and no pressures from our peoples... if it was only you and me, what would you say?”

He was dying to know how she thought when she wasn’t under stress.

Harth turned her head so her temple rested on his chest and she stared at the room as she spoke .”I would say it feels just like you, and that already feels like home...” she said quietly. Tarkyn wasn’t sure if he wanted to weep or kiss her. But she wasn’t done. “But that’s only true because you’re here. You’re my home, now, Tarkyn. I just want to be with you. All of you, all of the time. I wish... I wish there really was no one but us. That would be perfect.”

Then she tilted up her chin to find his eyes and when they caught, Tarkyn cupped her precious face and sipped at her beautiful lips. And as her breath got shallower, the stroking of her hands on his back more intentional, as his heart began to race, Tarkyn prayed breathless gratitude to the Creator for bringing him such a brave and loving female.

It was mind-boggling to him that she was there, truly there, in his home-their home-and throwing herself into his arms as if he was the safest place to be.

.....

Him, the warrior, the soldier, whose entire life had been marked by combat, both real and simulated. Whose skin was marked by scars and bruises, and whose strength had been carved at the hands of resistance.

He doesn’t know how many nights he’d spent in that very bed speculating about his mate, how she would look, which tribe she’d be from-how she would feel under his hands.

But his thoughts then, the feel of her in his arms, was nothing but a pale comparison to what he’d imagined.

As he deepened the kiss and Harth began to tug his shirt from his leathers, he cupped her face with one hand, trailing the other up her side, under her shirt, where the velvet skin of her stomach was so soft and warm.

Then she returned the favor. Having freed his shirt, she slipped both hands underneath it at his back, her fingers clawed, even as she followed the dips and curves of his spine. He sucked in, tensing, but in pleasure at her touch. His entire skin prickled and tingled under her touch as she investigated him, and when she pulled her hands around to explore his stomach, his blood turned to flames.

“Harth... Creator’s mane...” he groaned, then deepened the kiss, fighting with himself not to overwhelm her. But she only sighed into his kiss, her mouth curling into a smile as she pulled him closer.

Minutes... it was minutes that they spent slowly touching, kissing, searching. Harth struggled with the buttons of his shirt, but got through them, then let her hands play up his stomach to his chest, then his shoulders, pushing his shirt open ahead of them, and laying a kiss right at the center of his chest.

He groaned, shivering with weakness for her, and somehow flooded with strength that wanted him to believe he was invincible, that told his body he was healed and his mate was there, and that there was nothing more necessary in this world than being close to her.

As she pushed the shirt off his shoulders, he was forced to drop his arms to release it. And in a stupid, juvenile moment of self-indulgence, he pulled out of the kiss to lock eyes with her and yank the shirt down-waiting to see her eyes rake down his chest as they had in the dark that morning.

But, because the Creator had a sense of humor, and honestly, he was being an ass, his dramatic flick and tug-which should have yanked the shirt sleeves down so he could drop his hands and let it fall to the floor behind him-instead caught the tail of his shirt on his belt-buckle, and one of the sleeves on his bicep.

Instead of his mate’s eyes lighting with desire, they lit with amusement as he was forced to briefly wrestle with the fabric to free himself.

He gave her a mock scowl for laughing at his ridiculously-loving the sparkle in her eyes, and the way that even her laughter, her eyes followed the lines of his chest, down his stomach and lower-where even in in the confines of his leathers, his body was making his arousal plain.

She giggled, then reached out to palm him, tilting her head and looking suddenly very young as she felt him twitch under her palm.

But Tarkyn, near shaking with desire for her, forgot the embarrassment of trying to show off, and instead reached for her shirt, letting his eyes hood and his jaw go tight when her gaze dragged back up to his face.

She didn’t stop him, little minx. She locked eyes with him and let her arms relax, only her fingers trailing on the sides of his thighs, her eyes bright on his while he worked her buttons, first one that revealed the hollow between her breasts, then another that revealed the paler skin below than, then the next... until only the sides of the shirt catching on her breasts kept her covered.

And her nipples made points beneath it.