The smell behind her was of blood.
Not the fresh kind that singed the nose with metallic sharpness, but the darker scent of something older, heavier, like blood that had long since dried beneath a blade. It was thick in the air, clinging to the man's clothes, seeping from him like the echo of a past violence that refused to fade.
Arabella's stomach turned, though not in revulsion. It was strange, disturbingly so, that she did not recoil. Instead, her heart beat faster, her pulse syncing to that quiet, measured breathing against her ear. Whoever held her was not merely a man; he was something tempered, sharpened, forged by danger.
Tall, broader than anyone she had ever stood this close to. His chest rose and fell against her back, his breath brushing the strands of her hair. His hands, rough, calloused, and steady, covered her mouth, his palm smelling faintly of iron and smoke. It was a hold not meant to harm, yet it was unyielding.
