All Harrow can do at first is stare, the sharp angles of her face frozen somewhere between an unsteady lack of certainty and a deeper and more slow-burning arousal. Gideon's hands don't move, though she can feel the fine tremor of her fingertips, the potential energy waiting to be released. All would take is a nod, a movement more simple than some of the choices either of them have made; it's easier than a tumble onto a broken fence, cleaner than the sharp thrust of an awl into a temporal lobe. It's impossible, and frighteningly possible, and the decision keeps her frozen a beat longer than she'd like.

Her face flames hot, her throat working against--and with--all the words clawing their way out of her chest. "Start with the first," she says hoarsely. "I can't promise the second. Tonight."