ETAN
He hadn't considered the sheer effort it would require to stifle his desire to touch her at every moment. He was accustomed to the tight leash at the Castle, and under eyes that would condemn them. He'd looked forward to being here, alone, and able to be more natural in their interactions.
He hadn't anticipated that the simple brush of her fingers on his arm, or the trace of her eyes across his face would fan the flames he held inside.
Every moment close to her was a joy, and a journey, and torture.
Before long they were both seated on the ground, backs to a fallen log, their fingers entwined. The men talked quietly on the other side of the fire, but they stayed there close, and near silent, searching eyes, touching arms and hands, holding breaths.
Then they were parted, far too early. Borsche stood and told Etan they should go to their tent—they'd stopped to set up camp half a mile away—and they would return at first light.
