Isla knew she should turn and go. She should forget the way Tristan Blackwood's fingers had rested on her wrist, the way his dark eyes had probed hers as if deciphering a code. But she didn't.
Instead, she allowed a teasing smile to form on her lips. "Tell me, Captain," she whispered, "is it part of your job to prevent noblewomen from being on the streets after dark?"
Tristan's eyes flashed with something uninterpretable. "Only when they're stupid enough to risk themselves."
Isla moved closer, her cloak rustling in the wind. "And if danger is precisely what I was seeking?"
A muscle clenched in Tristan's jaw. "Then you found it," he whispered.
Her breath caught as the distance between them became impossibly narrow. She could smell the trace of leather and steel on him, the reminder of what his life was made of—discipline and duty. And yet, here he stood, in the dark with her, trapped in the same perilous dance.
"I should walk you back," he said, but his tone reflected his uncertainty.
"Or…" Isla breathed, angling her chin up a fraction, "you could give me one night of liberty."
Tristan let out a slow breath. His eyes darted to her mouth before refocusing on her eyes, as if he were fighting a battle within himself. "You're playing with fire, my lady."
She smiled, moving closer still. "Then burn me."
For an instant, there was only the echo of their breaths, Isla's thundering heart, and the crackle of tension between them. And then, to her shock, Tristan touched her, his fingers grazing the tender skin of her jaw. It was a touch almost non-existent, hesitant, feeling his way.
"You're trouble," he whispered, his thumb running along the curve of her lips.
"And you're temptation," she replied.
The world outside disappeared. Isla wasn't certain if it was the excitement of the evening or the irrepressible draw between them, but when Tristan's hand slipped further down, brushing against the curve of her neck, she quivered. It was a slow, gentle touch, one of reverence, as if committing to memory each contour of her flesh.
He leaned in—enough so she could sense the heat of his breath on her lips, but not quite close enough to close the gap.
"Tell me to stop," he breathed.
She should. She knew that.
But she whispered instead, "Don't."
And then Tristan did what he shouldn't have done.
He kissed her.
It was hesitant, slow at the beginning, like both of them were probing at the edges of something taboo. But the moment Isla settled into him, the control within him broke. His arms came around her waist, drawing her against his hard body, and her fingers delved into the dark hair that framed his head, holding on to him like she never wished to release.
Heat blazed between them, deadly and intoxicating. His mouth moved against hers with a ferocity that ran shivers down her spine, a wordless admission of all words could not express.
But as suddenly as it began, he withdrew.
His breathing was ragged, his hands still holding her waist as if to release her would shatter him.
"This can't happen," he growled.
Isla's lips still throbbed from the kiss. "It already did."
Tristan shook his head, his face twisted in torment. "You're a noblewoman. The king has ambitions for you—marriage, alliances, treaties. I took an oath to defend the crown, not steal kisses in the shadows."
Isla's heart tightened. "Is that what you believe? That you stole something from me?"
Tristan's eyes softened, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. "No," he admitted. "But if we keep going down this road, it will ruin us both."
Isla swallowed hard. The logical side of her knew he was correct. But the flame in her chest—the one he just fanned into a blaze—wouldn't be dampened.
"Then let's get the most out of the devastation," she breathed, planting one final kiss on his lips before vanishing into the darkness.
And this time, Tristan Blackwood didn't try to stop her.