“Warm now?” he asked. His voice was low, and just a bit cocky. He knew the answer.

She was. Everywhere. Her skin felt too tight and sensitive. Her nipples were pressing at the cups of her bra, just above where his arm rested. If he moved a bit he’d feel the hard peaks right through the fabric of her shirt. He could brush over them and drive her wild, like he had the last time he’d touched her. Ledi gasped at the thought, shifted the tiniest amount.

“I—I am.”

That small, scared part of her mind tried to dredge up the feelings of humiliation to deter her, and that was when it hit her: she felt no shame about sleeping with him. She’d been pissed about his lie, hurt and angry and betrayed, but she also remembered the laughter they had shared and the way he’d made her feel. That part had been true. If that was true, and the fact that he had always wanted her was true, she wasn’t sure what she was fighting against. She leaned back into him.

“Can you tell me about what you remember from when we were children?” she asked.

He pulled her closer. “I remember a bit of the betrothal ceremony. I remember thinking that you were very pretty, that you had happy eyes, and that you were a good friend so you would likely make a good wife. I don’t know what I thought a wife was, though. Probably someone who played video games with me and shared her crayons.”

Ledi laughed and he held her tighter.

“I was sad when you left, you know,” he continued. “That was the first time I realized sometimes you could cry and scream and flail and it would do nothing to bring a person back.”

“I learned that very soon after you, if it makes you feel any better,” she said quietly. He just held her then, and it was exactly the thing she wanted in that moment. The synchronized rise and fall of their chests. Being held by a man who had presented her with two separate identities and seemed to care for her regardless of which he inhabited.

“This makes me feel better, actually,” he said. “Having you here with me. I’ve always thought that the betrothal thing, especially of children, was outdated, but this feels right.”

“You know it pains me to admit this, but it feels right to me, too.” Ledi took a deep breath, then shifted in his hold and turned so that she faced him. In the firelight she could see the rounded sharpness of his cheekbones, the deep, dark brown of his perfect skin, and those eyes that stared at her as if she were both goddess and pilgrim.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she whispered.

“Do what?” he asked, whispering, too.

“Be with someone. I’ve only ever been alone, and that’s worked pretty well for me.”

“You had friends,” he replied, not whispering anymore. “Portia was as protective of you as my Royal Guard.”

Ledi shook her head and tears filled her eyes. “She hurt me, too.”

Thabiso’s hand moved to her face, and his fingertips brushed over her cheeks, traced the shell of her ear, and sent a shiver of want through her.

“That’s the thing, Naledi. That the people who love you will hurt you the most is one of the great conundrums of the human condition. My philosophy tutor said so, and he had about five degrees on the subject, so I guess it holds some water.”

She giggled despite the tears burning her eyes, then squeezed her eyes shut and finally said aloud the questions that had been trying to force their way out since she’d discovered Thabiso’s identity and, as a result, her own. “How could my parents take me away from here and not leave me any connection to people who would have loved me? How could they have left me alone?”

She felt the press of his warm palm between her shoulder blades as he pulled her close and rubbed comforting circles down her back. His beard brushed against her face as she nestled into the comfort of the space between his neck and shoulder. It still smelled like happiness.

“I’ve been asking myself this, too. For years I’d thought it was greed, or pride, or insolence, but I cannot believe your parents would make such a rash decision without reason. I cannot believe that your mother would wound her best friend without reason. One thing is certain, though, Naledi.”

She opened her eyes and looked up into his.

“You’re not alone anymore.” His lips pressed into hers then, warm and silky, and while his hands offered comfort, his kiss was pure desire.

Naledi closed her eyes and fell into the kiss. His familiar floral musk surrounded her, and she pressed fluttering kisses down his jaw to his neck to inhale it again. She retraced the path to his mouth and covered it with hers, relearning the taste and feel of a man she’d thought might be right for her, and was now turning out to be even better than she’d previously imagined.

“Goddess, I thought I’d never taste you again,” Thabiso rasped against her lips. “I don’t think I could live without this sweetness.”

She pushed against his shoulder to press him back to the ground, and then straddled him.

“You’d live. Fuckboyitis isn’t a terminal illness,” she reminded him.

“But chronic lack of Naledi is,” he said simply. “Leads to brittle bones.”

She snorted, which wasn’t very sexy, but she was glad that she wasn’t the only one who turned into a complete cornball before sex. He leaned up on his elbows and nipped at her mouth before kissing her, hard. Her skin buzzed from the roughness of his beard, heightening the sensation.