“Okay then.” He pushes his chair back slightly and takes his shirt off, tossing it to the floor beside him. He spreads his legs and pats the crotch of his pants, his gaze absolutely feral. “Have a seat.”
I am lightheaded at the sight of his torso again. I manage to get up, drawn to him like a magnet. I put my hands on the hard breadth of his shoulders and straddle him. We are so close. Our mouths inches away.
He’s breathing hard. I’m breathless.
He’s a wall of muscle and ink. I’m soft, yielding against him.
“So, ask away,” he says, that voice low and rough, yet cashmere cream. That voice I’ll hear in my dreams long after he’s gone.
His eyes never leave my lips.
I lean back to get a better look at him, even though the distance pulls at me. I decide to leave the lion alone for now, and run my fingers over his shoulder, the taut, hard muscle. A storm rages in muted ink, a masterfully shaded old ship with tall sails spreads onto his chest.
“This one,” I say softly. “Why the storm? Why the ship?”
He chews on his lip for a moment, searching my eyes. “I was twenty-four. I backpeddled with life for a bit. I lost my edge in the game. But I pushed through and was better for it. A ship is safe in the harbor, but that’s not what ships are built for.” He tilts his head as if observing me, though I’m the one watching him. “It helps me when I get scared. To keep going.”
“You get scared?” I ask him, unable to picture this strong, powerful man, afraid of anything at all.
“All the time,” he says frankly. “How can life be anything except terrifying at times? We’re born here. We don’t ask for it. And we’re expected to somehow get through it, to live each day without dying. We live, and if we don’t, we die.” He looks away, gives his head a shake. “Nah. We’re all scared, every last one of us.”
I know I am. Of so many things. My heart melts slightly to know that someone like him could feel the same way as someone like me.
I trail my fingers along the text on his collarbone. “Nunquam iterum,” I read out. “Latin, I assume?”
“Yes,” he says slowly, looking away. “It means never again.”
“Never again, what?”
His mouth quirks up into a sour smile. “Never again to a lot of things.”
“Is that all I’m going to get?”
“From that, yes,” he says, finally meeting my gaze again. His pupils are so large, they hypnotize me. “You get one more. Then you’re giving me something.”
I breathe in deeply and look over every inch of him. The lion. “Hope before Death” across his side. A paw print on his inner arm. A flock of ravens swirling into a tribal pattern down one bicep, making a sleeve. A crest with what looks like Latin on the other forearm. Another similar crest on his chest. I press on the one on his chest, with a boar at the center. “Corda. Serrata. Pando,” I say, my finger tracing the words.
“I open locked hearts,” he says.
I still, watching him close. “What?”
“I open locked hearts,” he repeats. “It’s the Lockhart crest. I was born a Lockhart. That is the clan’s motto.”
“Again, that’s terribly romantic,” I tell him. “That must be where you get it from.” I touch his forearm, the other crest. “And I guess this is McGregor?”
“Aye, though it should be MacGregor, or Clan Gregor.”
“'S rioghal mo dhream,” I try to say but stumble over it. “What the hell.”
“Royal is my race,” he translates. He gives me a dry smile. “But I’m not a McGregor and it’s not my race. So that explains a lot.”
I run my hand down the side of his cheek and he briefly closes his eyes. “I think I’d rather you a romantic warrior than one with fussy bloodlines.”
He leans in, slowly opening his eyes, gazing at me through his lashes. “Who said I was a warrior?”
I lower my voice. “I say you’re a warrior.”
You’re my warrior.
For now.
He lifts his chin. “What else do you say?”