It doesn't matter. It's passion and storm and the twist of the knife, but he can't stay away. He's tried. Merlin knows, he's tried. She has, too. He can see it in her eyes, but she's always there, waiting for him, as trapped in this sordid nonsense as he is.

Her hair is breaking free from its confines and her gown from earlier in the evening is crinkled. She's been pacing. She's dry, so she made it before the rain, but the cracks in her outer shell are huge now. Gone is the immaculate war heroine. This is his witch.

He grabs her and grins when she pushes herself flush against him. The damp from his clothing doesn't deter her. She presses her lips to his, fierce and quick. The wild smile on her face is all he can see as she strips off his outer robes. There is no question where this is going. There never really is.

He feels the drag of her teeth along his neck as his shirt falls away. It sends shivers down his spine. This is the delicious edge, the precipice before the mad fall.

He rips the silk off of her body. She's gold and bronze in the candle light. She's warm and molten. She's home.

The delicate white lace of her underthings taunts him. She always picks white, knows it drives him mad. He sees the triumph there in her eyes and slows down.

There is time to make this last. He sheds the rest of his clothing and stalks around the bed. She follows him with her eyes, waiting for him.

"We don't have long." She swallows and extends her hand toward him.

He feels the stab of her pain and forces it away. There's no tomorrow here. There is no time. It's their place to just be as they want to be.

"You'll accept him?" He hates the tremor in his voice. He hates that the outside world has made its way into this room. Goddess, he hates that the passion is ebbing away as the reality sets in.

She shakes her head and relief floods him.

"I'm leaving." She bites her lip. "I can't stay and watch you..."

She doesn't need to finish the sentence. He knows that his marriage has been looming on the horizon of her thoughts for months. It's been plaguing his as well. Arranged marriage, the prop of society, the assurance of tradition, the trap he is about to fall in.

"You could come with me." She grabs his hand. "Rebel."

And there it is.

The invitation for which he's been waiting. Two paths sprawl out before him. One, the safe one, is familiar. It's expected. The other, the wild one, tempts him with the unknown. She's wild and tempestuous, and she's waiting for his response.

"How?" He's never asked before.

"Harry." She shrugs one bare shoulder. "We worked out a system. He doesn't know about you, but he knows there is someone. He knows I was hoping."

She clenches the fabric under her in her fists. He reads the tension in her and knows there's more. It seems she's driven to complicate things.

"Are you going to come with me?" She looks vulnerable as she waits for an answer.

"I am." He nods his head and feels the weight fall from his shoulders. The fear of a life without her is gone.