Aveline rose onto her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
For one suspended heartbeat, no one moved. Not Rosalyn. Not Theron. Only Lucien, who had only been desperately turning the pages of a note, seemed untouched by the shock of it.
Aveline felt the familiar heat of Theron beneath her hands. She felt the sudden tension that seized his body, the brief, startled stillness of him, and under that, she felt something far more dangerous, something that made her chest ache as if her heart were breaking apart and trying to mend itself all at once.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was not soft, and it was certainly not wise.
It was wounded.
Possessive.
Furious.
It was the kiss of a girl who had spent too many days wondering whether she had been forgotten, whether her silence had been mistaken for acceptance, whether her pride had been made small enough to overlook.
