The Forbidden Throb Chapter 121

Emma's POV:

I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my head.

The golden lights of the Christmas market blurred in my vision, the scent of roasted chestnuts and mulled wine suddenly overwhelming.

"I'm fine," I managed, forcing myself to meet his eyes. "Just... a little cold. Maybe I should get that mulled wine after all?"

Daniel's eyebrow arched slightly. "Mulled wine?" he repeated, his tone carefully neutral.

The memory of his warning on the airplane flashed through my mind—his serious expression, the firm set of his jaw as he'd told me not to drink around strangers.

My resolve crumbled instantly.

"Actually," I said quickly, "maybe hot chocolate would be better?"

Daniel's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. Without warning, he pulled me into his arms, sheltering me from the wind with his body.

His hand came to rest at the small of my back, holding me steady against him.

"Emma." His voice was low. "What I said on the plane—about not drinking around strangers—I wasn't trying to control you. I was worried about you being in a vulnerable situation if something happened."

"I know I'm your husband," Daniel continued quietly, "but that doesn't give me the right to demand your obedience. What I *can* do is offer advice based on my concern for your safety. That's all it was—a suggestion, not an order."

My heart hammered against my ribs as he pulled back just enough to look down at me.

"And Emma—Mrs. Prescott—" The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "This works both ways. You have every right to voice your expectations of me, too. "

His voice dropped even lower, almost a whisper. "Whatever you ask for, I'll listen. I promise."

A wave of warmth spread through my chest, radiating outward until even my frozen fingertips seemed to tingle with heat. I couldn't meet his eyes anymore.

"Two mulled wines, then," I managed, my voice coming out breathier than I intended.

The vendor filled two ceramic mugs with the steaming burgundy liquid, the sweet scent of cinnamon and orange peel rising with the steam.

Daniel paid and handed me one of the mugs.

"Careful," he murmured. "It's hot."

I raised the mug to my lips, blowing gently on the surface before taking a tentative sip. The wine was sweet and spiced, warming me from the inside out. A soft sound of contentment escaped me before I could stop it.

We found a spot beneath a wooden overhang, away from the main flow of foot traffic.

The structure was decorated with pine garlands and twinkling lights, creating a cozy alcove that sheltered us from the increasingly heavy snowfall. Daniel positioned himself slightly in front of me, his broad shoulders blocking the worst of the wind.

I took another sip of wine, then looked at him. "So I can drink as much as I want tonight？"

Daniel's expression softened. "Em, I'm right beside you. Until you can't walk straight, if that's what you'd like."

The teasing note in his voice made my face flush.

"I don't think I want to get *that* drunk," I managed, taking a larger sip to hide my embarrassment.

"No?" Daniel's eyes glinted with amusement. "Pity. I was looking forward to carrying you back to the hotel."

I nearly choked on my wine. "Daniel!"

He laughed—a genuine, warm sound that I'd rarely heard from him.

The laugh transformed his entire face, making him look younger, more carefree.

Not far from our alcove, a small crowd had gathered around a puppet theater. Colorful marionettes danced across a miniature stage, their movements accompanied by cheerful French folk music. Children laughed and clapped, their voices carrying across the market.

Daniel's arm came around my shoulders as we watched, and I found myself leaning into his warmth without thinking about it. The wine hummed pleasantly through my veins, making everything feel soft and golden and impossibly romantic.

When the show ended and the crowd dispersed, I realized my mug was empty.

"More wine?" Daniel asked, noticing my disappointed expression.

"I probably shouldn't—"

"But you want to." It wasn't a question. He'd already started guiding me toward another stall, his hand warm at the small of my back. "Then let's get more."

This vendor's display was different—the mugs were shaped like little Santa boots, bright red with white trim. The wine smelled similar but with an extra hint of vanilla.

"These are adorable," I breathed, picking one up to examine it more closely.

The vendor, a cheerful middle-aged woman, smiled broadly. "Six euros includes the wine and the mug," She paused. "You can return it for a euro back, or keep it as a souvenir."

"Really?" I looked at the Santa boot mug with new appreciation. "Can we get two?"

"These would look perfect on the kitchen counter," I said without thinking. "Like... like matching set."

Something flickered in Daniel's expression—pleasure, maybe, or satisfaction. "Two it is."

The wine in this mug was even sweeter than the first, the vanilla adding a creamy richness. Between sips, Daniel and I shared the drinks using the two cinnamon sticks the vendor had provided as stirrers and makeshift straws.

We continued through the market, and somehow my casual interest in the mugs transformed into a full-blown collection mission.

Everywhere we went, I spotted new shapes—there were mugs shaped like tiny beer steins, like snowmen, like Christmas trees, each one more charming than the last.

"Oh! Look at that one!" I pointed excitedly at a stall displaying mugs shaped like miniature wooden barrels, complete with metal bands around them.

Daniel's lips twitched. "You want those too?"

"They're so cute though!" I was definitely feeling the effects of the wine now—everything seemed brighter, funnier, more wonderful. "Can we get them? Please?"

"Em, your bag is already full. Where are you going to put more mugs?"

I looked down at my crossbody bag, which was indeed bulging with ceramic treasures. Four or five mugs pressed against the leather, and I could barely get the zipper to close.

"I don't care," I declared, perhaps a bit too loudly. "I'll carry them. I'll make it work. These are *barrel mugs*, Daniel. *Barrels*."

He laughed again, that warm, genuine sound that made my heart flutter. "Alright. Two barrel mugs it is."

At this stall, the vendor was a young man who chatted with Daniel in rapid French while filling our mugs. I watched in surprise as Daniel responded fluently, his pronunciation crisp and natural.

When Daniel turned back to me with our fresh mugs of mulled wine, I blurted out, "You speak French?"

"I worked in Paris for a while," he said, handing me my mug. "A year-long research collaboration at Hôpital Européen Georges-Pompidou. It was easier to pick up the language than to rely on translators for everything."

I took a sip of wine, emboldened by the alcohol.

"You speak French fluently. Your medical expertise means you could probably translate most of the technical terms yourself." The realization made my chest tight. "You didn't need me as a translator at all, did you?"