Chapter Five

They slipped out of the ballroom, and the noise of the gala faded behind the closed doors. The terrace was cool and quiet, washed in moonlight. Liana walked to the railing, and Sebastian followed, leaving enough space between them that she could turn away if she wanted to.

For a few moments, neither spoke. The cool air stirred the loose strands around her face, and she tucked them behind her ear.

"Much better," she murmured.

"Your feet or the company?"

She glanced at him.

"I'm still deciding."

"Fair enough."

She laughed softly, then leaned back against the railing.

"Do you ever get tired of it?"

"Of what?"

"Being Sebastian Devereux."

He hadn't expected that question. Most people wanted to know about his power, his family, or the decisions he'd made over the centuries. Very few asked what it was like to live with the weight of being himself.

"Sometimes," he admitted.

Her expression softened, but she didn't rush to fill the silence. That, more than anything, made him want to tell her the truth about what had happened the moment she'd walked into the ballroom.

Instead, he asked, "What about you? Do you ever get tired of being Liana Whitmore?"

She let out a quiet breath.

"You have no idea."

"I might, if you told me."

She studied him, as if deciding whether she trusted him with an honest answer.

"Sometimes I wish I could walk into a room and have someone talk to me without first thinking about my father."

Sebastian nodded. He understood more than she knew.

"Then, for what it's worth, I haven't spent the evening thinking about your father."

Her eyes met his.

"What have you been thinking about?"

You. The answer rose immediately, fierce and absolute. He kept it to himself.

"Whether the champagne was worth finishing."

She laughed, and the sound eased something in his chest.

"You're terrible."

"So I've been told."

"I'm starting to believe it."

"Yet you're still here."

She looked at him, and her smile turned a little quieter.

"Yes. I am."

The space between them seemed to change. She was no longer looking at him as though he were an amusing stranger she'd met at a tedious party. Her gaze dropped briefly to his mouth, then returned to his eyes.

Sebastian felt the bond pull tight. He could hear the distant music through the doors, the soft rustle of her dress as she shifted closer, the steady beat of her heart.

Liana stepped toward him.

"I have a question," she said.

"Another one?"

"Don't sound so worried."

"I'm trying to prepare myself."

She smiled, then reached for the front of his jacket, her fingers curling lightly into the fabric.

"Are you always this easy to talk to, or am I getting special treatment?"

He glanced down at her hand before meeting her eyes again.

"I haven't decided yet."

"That's a terrible answer."

"You've said that about several of my answers tonight."

"And yet you keep giving them to me."

"Maybe I like hearing what you think of them."

She looked up at him, caught off guard for half a second. Then her smile returned, softer this time.

"Maybe I like talking to you."

The words were simple. They shouldn't have affected him as much as they did. But she was his mate. After nine centuries, she was standing in front of him, choosing to stay when she could have returned to the ballroom.

He wanted to tell her. Every instinct in him demanded it. But she didn't know him well enough to understand what the truth would mean, and he wouldn't turn a connection she hadn't chosen into a decision she felt obligated to make.

So he kept his voice light.

"I'm glad I passed the interview."

She laughed, her fingers still curled in his jacket.

"Don't get too excited. There may be a second round."

"I'll try to contain myself."

She looked down at her hand, then back at him.

"You know, I don't think I want to go back inside just yet."

"Neither do I."

Her eyes searched his face.

"Good."

For a moment, they simply looked at each other. She could have stepped away. He would have let her. Instead, she moved closer, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her against him.

"Liana."

"What?"

He wasn't entirely sure what he meant to say. Her name had escaped him before he could stop it.

She smiled.

"You keep doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Saying my name like you're about to tell me something."

He could have told her everything. Instead, his gaze fell to her lips.

"Maybe I'm trying to think of something worth saying."

She glanced at his mouth, then back at his eyes.

"You could always stop talking."

Her fingers tightened in his jacket. His restraint snapped.

He kissed her — hard, one hand sliding to the small of her bare back to pull her against him, the other tangling in the loose strands at her nape. She rose into him without hesitation, a soft sound escaping her throat as her lips parted under his. His wolf surged so violently he had to lock his muscles to keep from crushing her against the railing.

She tasted like champagne and something sweeter, uniquely her own. He deepened the kiss slowly at first, then hungrier when her fingers dragged into his hair. Her body molded to his, and when she arched into him, he backed her the last half-step until the cool stone of the terrace wall met her shoulders.

Her hands slid under his jacket, palms flat against his chest, as if she needed the contact to stay upright. He could feel her heartbeat racing beneath his own, the bond between them pulled taut and demanding. He kissed her deeper still, pouring nine hundred years of waiting into the way he held her, and she answered in kind — closer, hungrier, neither of them willing to be the one who pulled away first.

When they finally broke apart, it was only for air, mouths still brushing, breaths mingling. Sebastian rested his forehead against hers, voice rough.

"Still think you should be intimidated?"

Liana's answer was a soft, shaky laugh that turned into another kiss — slower this time, lingering. She pulled him closer by the lapels until there was no space left between them at all.

There was no ballroom, no cameras, no politicians, no pretending. Only the impossible pull that had seized them the instant their eyes met, and the dizzying, breathless certainty that neither of them wanted to fight it.