The first time she kissed him — the first time she could remember kissing him — she'd been wrestling with competing motives. She'd thought him a traitor, and had been consumed with so much grief and rage it leaked into everything she did. Every kiss traded truly had felt like a blow neither one of them a victor.

Not with the secrets between them. Not with the curse at its most vicious and effective. And her need, her all-consuming need, to set right a terrible wrong. The mistaken wrong.

And now, now Emilia kisses him like she has discovered a pot of honey, and deciding to keep it all to herself, savors every drop that lands on her tongue. It isn't without the intensity that once earned her the moniker Fury, but the fire of it is softer in its warmth, the rest of it lingering behind like a promise of more to come.

She breaks away from the kiss, breathless and a little bit wrecked. Her lips are plump from such extensive use, but they curve into another smile at the sight of him, flower and all. Their hut feels so far away, though it isn't. She's just never wanted to move less, not with how he feels underneath her, legs flanking his sides.

"You know what to do," she whispers, feather-light if not for the longing encased in her voice. The wanting.