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Not that Hanna blames me for that. She was as careless that night as I was. But I have never got over my own thoughtlessness. That I didn’t take better care of a woman I respected. A person. A soul. I cannot ever do that again; I have spent half a decade making sure I won’t.

And yet…

As I lead Poet to my house, tow him inside, and shut the door behind us, something reckless stirs inside me and every careful ritual I have built my life around distorts. Blurs at the edges. Melts away to nothing as I push him into the door and kiss him the way I should have three days ago.

Poet lets me manhandle him.

He smirks against my mouth and matches my aggression with just enough to drag more out of me.

A clawing hand at my jaw.

Teeth catching my lower lip.

His strong thighs parting as I press closer as if he knows exactly what that subtle invitation does to me.

He does know.

I’m sure of it.

I feel it, in every sinful response. Every low sound. He gives way on purpose, goading me into overpowering him. And I take the bait—a choice I lose to the primitive instinct he lights in me. Hot abandon I can’t contain. Because I’m starved for this. I’m starved for him.

Pinning him in place, I hold him still and kiss the breath from us both. Feel him yield in my arms, his grin widen, and pressure and friction start a war between us. A war I can’t win as he breathes my name into my mouth and another layer of composure leaves my body.

He knows.

He knows.

And I do not care. Not tonight. I am a flaming coil of want and heat and I have this man pressed against my front door.

Velnias.

The wildness in me retreats a little.

I ease back, giving Poet some room. “When I invited you in it was with the intention of showing you more than the hallway.”

“It’s a nice hallway.” Poet keeps his gaze fixed on my face—on my mouth, specifically. “We can stay here if you want.”

I do want. Lots of things. None of them involve staying put. “Come inside.”

Past the kitchen and to the living room.

I flick on a lamp.

Poet takes in the small table where Aras and I eat our meals. The dinosaur toys stacked in the corner. A guitar is propped by the oversized couch. He strums his fingers over the frets and I see the wistful haze in his eyes.

He used to play.

But he doesn’t tell me that. He turns his back on the instrument I brought from Lithuania all those years ago and comes to where I stand at the other end of the couch. “I liked watching you sing.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. You love it, don’t you?”

“I do. Though, I did not know it until Sol taught me the ways of his people. He is the master.”

“I couldn’t hear him.” Poet lays his hand on my chest. “But there were moments where I thought I could hear you.”

I hum, low in my register, tracking the spark in Poet’s gaze as it reaches him. “I wasn’t sure if you were close enough to read the stories on my lips, then I saw you smiling at the funny parts.”