A Sabre in the Hemlock by Dorothy Dreyer

His jaw flexes. “You used your magic again.”

“Dante—”

“You promised you wouldn’t,” he says, voice quiet but taut, threaded with frustration. “You said you’d wait. You said you’d let Ezra figure it out.”

“I never promised,” I snap back, chin lifting. “You asked me not to, but I never agreed.”

“You bled, Celeste.” He leans closer, his voice low, heated. “I could tell something was wrong, even from the water. And what I couldn’t see, Nadya filled me in on.”

Of course she did.

“I had to help you.” The words come out louder than I intend, sharp with the emotion I’ve been burying all day. “They sent armed soldiers after you. You were bleeding underwater. You could have been pummeled by a f***ing tsunami. You don’t get to ask me to sit and watch you die.”

His hands flex, fists clenching just beneath the surface. “And what if helping me had killed you instead?”

I stare at him, my breath shallow. I don’t have an answer—not one that would make him feel better.

He paces a few steps through the water, raking a hand through his hair until it curls wild and damp around his temples. “Gods, you’re so damn stubborn.”

“And you’re so damn arrogant if you think you can tell me when and how I’m allowed to use a power that’s mine.”

He turns sharply, water sluicing off his chest, his gaze fierce enough to stop me in place. He crosses the space between us with quick, sure strides—and suddenly, he’s there, his hands finding me beneath the water, one arm locking around my waist, the other curling so that his hand is tugging the hair at the nape of my neck.

The heat of him burns through the chill. My breath stutters.

“Of course you’d fight me,” he mutters, his voice hoarse against my cheek. “Even when I’m trying to protect you.”

“And of course you’d push me,” I breathe back, “even when I’m trying to save you.”

The air thrums between us, thick with something neither of us is willing to yield. My pulse hammers as his thumb grazes the side of my throat, slow and reverent, like he’s trying to memorize the beat of my heart.

“I told you,” he says, his forehead almost brushing mine, “you bleed for no one.”

“And I told you,” I whisper, “you don’t get to decide that.”

His jaw tightens—and then, in one breath, his lips are on mine.