6. Silva

Silva

"Tell us again how he asked you."

The goblins at the next table enthusiastically repeated Silva's request, pointing out to Lurielle that they had only heard the story once.

"C'mon, we need this," Tula laughed. "I'm going to need the serotonin from your engagement to last until my Growlr date."

"See? We all want to hear it again," Silva sighed dreamily, resting her chin atop her folded hands, waiting for Lurielle's repeated recitation.

"It was nothing!" Lurielle laughed. "Really, it was so low-key. Honestly, I could smack him for how much he hyped up what it allegedly needed to be. If I'd known it was something we could just do in the backyard . . . Anyway, it was perfect."

Silva sighed again as Lurielle recounted the way Khash had made dinner that night, serving her and loading the dishwasher before they'd strolled hand-in-hand with their dogs through Cambric Creek's downtown. She was over the moon for her friend. Silva didn't personally see Khash's appeal, but she knew attraction was as subjective as books. Lurielle was on cloud nine and that was all that mattered.

"That's the most romantic part of the entire story," volunteered the tiefling leaning against the counter, eating a salad and listening in on their conversation. "I know it's mundane, but a partner who takes care of dinner and loads the dishes? Please. I'll take that over flowers and candy every day of the week. If the next part is ‘he threw in a batch of separated whites,' you need to drag him to city hall right now. My wife can't even look at the machine without spilling the bleach."

They all laughed, the three of them at their small table and the two goblins who'd turned their chairs to listen in. Ris's voice was a bit too high and bright, and Silva knew Ris was likely gritting her teeth, counting the minutes until the tiefling finished her salad and left. Portia was one of the executives, and although she seemed friendly and down-to-earth, Silva was self-aware enough to recognize that she was a novice in the corporate world and took her cues from her more experienced friends. Smile, laugh, toe the line.

"Let's just say Khash keeps the laundry service in his building well-employed. If they had an option to deliver directly to his closet, he'd do it in a heartbeat."

They were fully off-track now, one of the goblins recounting the way her middle school-aged son had brought his entire ketterling team home after a particularly muddy practice, leaving their uniforms in a disgusting heap in the laundry room and using the swimming pool as a communal bathtub.

Silva grinned, thinking of the way Tate spot-treated a dress she'd spilled wine on a few weeks earlier, always ensuring her work clothes were laundered and steamed on the evenings she drove from the office straight to his apartment. Another time, she'd sat on the sink eating a peanut butter sandwich as he knelt on the bathroom floor, cleaning the already-clean grout with a toothbrush. He cooked her gourmet meals, always ensured her favorites were on hand, and never let her lift a finger to help, unless she asked to do so. If this was a contest of domestic competency, she was certain she'd already won.

The tiefling's phone buzzed on the counter beside her, prompting her swift exit from the breakroom, salad and all.

"Congratulations to you, he sounds like a keeper!" Portia called over her shoulder to Lurielle on her way out the door, and Ris slumped the instant she was gone.

"Oh, thank the stars. That should be illegal. Don't they have their own breakroom?! I'm pretty sure that's why accounting sits outside."

"So, obviously you said yes," one of the goblins went on, getting them back on topic.

"I did," Lurielle confirmed, beaming with the force of her smile, unhampered when she pulled a face. "But I don't want a long engagement. So now I need to plan a wedding, and that seems over my paygrade."

"That's why I'm here," Silva trilled, as several more of their coworkers from a different department came in laughing, taking turns at the coffee machine. She and Lurielle had been missing each other since she'd returned from the office, but that day she'd come prepared.

The noise level in the small room seemed deafening compared to the serene silence of Tate's apartment in the afternoons, and Silva winced in reaction. She had missed these break room chats with her friends, but beyond that, she found she didn't miss office culture that much, nor any of her other co-workers.

She had tried to be friendly with everyone when she was new, but each department had its own little clique, species groups that automatically formed, and existing friend circles who telegraphed they were not interested in expanding. Her friendly overtures had been widely rebuffed, and while she was glad she'd fallen in with the girls, Silva found she didn't miss seeing the vast majority of her uncongenial co-workers. She didn't care that she was missing office gossip because these people were still strangers to her. She wasn't emotionally invested in any of them, so not being present to learn about the affair in legal or the fight over common space in accounting wasn't nearly as interesting to her as sitting across Tate's lap in the middle of a workday as he scrolled through a greenhouse website, picking out which herbs would grace the rooftop garden come spring.

She'd ceased bringing in cookies and baked goods for the breakroom, especially after her cider had been guzzled by the thief. She was still under-assigned in her department and had come to terms with the fact that she always would be, as long as she remained. Her meager assignments for the day could be completed in just a few hours, leaving her to struggle finding enough mindless busywork to fill the rest of the work day in the office, which was not something she had to do when she worked from Tate's apartment.

There, she would rise at the crack of dawn with him, kissing the side of his long neck as the soft melody of his phone alarm went off on the bedside table. Some mornings, he would silence the alarm and snuggle back beneath the covers with her for another hour, his arms wrapped around her and his face buried in her hair.

On others, he would kiss her slowly, rolling them until he covered her completely. Silva wasn't sure if it was fae magic or a testament to how completely he occupied her thoughts, for his long fingers would only need to stroke through her silky heat for a heartbeat before she was slick and writhing beneath him, desperate to be filled. She would beg until he held her legs over the crook of his arms, hilting himself with a single slow, deep thrust, letting her acclimatize to his shape before he began to move. Sometimes he would stay like that for an interminable amount of time — hips motionless, his cock filling her, tickling her clit as she quivered around him. The combination of fullness and pressure coupled with unceasing attention of the bud of nerves never failed to make her come. She would gasp and whine as he stroked her clit, tracing shapes against its sensitive side, or pulling back its hood to rub her directly.

"Dove, you're squeezing me hard enough to circumcise. Is this what you need?"

His voice would be a low, lilting purr in her ear, her high moans the only sound puncturing the early morning quiet. His groan against her when she finally came — clenching around the satisfying girth of his cock — would be muffled by her hair, quiet and close.

Then and only then would he begin to move, his cock slick and slippery from her orgasm. He would thump into her rhythmically, always hitting that spot within her that made her toes curl, his sharp teeth catching at her neck, her ears, her shoulders. There was something oddly sacred about those mornings — spread open beneath him, her head tipped back, breathy moans she couldn't hold in, the bedroom lit with grey, predawn light and nothing but silence beyond the two of them. She would curl her fingers into his hair and squeeze as she shook apart beneath him, her body clenching until he groaned, his hips surging, dropping against her once they were both sated.

On other mornings, his alarm would go off and she would join him in the shower, her back pressed to the wet tiles, her legs wrapped around his waist and his cock dragging against her inner walls in a way that made her feel as if her soul might rip free of her body. Clean, white and clear, steaming water, and silence beyond the door — again, sacred and secret, as if they were the only two beings in existence.

It was a cruel irony that the shower had been the scene of her fantasy realized at last. It had been one of those average mornings, her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist.

"Right there," she'd wheezed. "Right there. Don't stop."

She'd been so close, so close to coming that her thighs had already begun to tremble. She continued to whimper and gasp against him, begging and pleading, not even cognizant of what she was saying. She just needed him to keep going right there, needed him to not slow down or stop, needed him to hold the exact position he was in with no deviation. She had crossed her ankles over the rounded swell of his ass, using her feet to hold him in place, urging him in just a bit deeper, just a bit harder, right there . . .

"Fuck . . ."

His hips bounced off hers awkwardly, his rhythm changing and tripping, the peak she'd been rapidly ascending suddenly out of reach as she whined.

Her eyes popped open when she realized what happened, what was still happening at that moment as he groaned against her neck, his hips jerking. He'd not pulled out immediately. In for a penny, in for a pound, was likely his thinking at that point, Silva assumed. Her own eyes closed, focusing every nerve ending in her body to her core, desperate to feel him pulsing within her, to feel the pressure of his release and the hot eruptions of it . . . but at this angle, all she felt was the hot water overhead, the tiles at her back and the glance of his hips, his cock too busy contracting within her to hit her in the right spot.

Once, twice . . . after the third quiver of his back, he was finished. He'd pulled out, cursing again.

Silva felt herself slip a fraction down the wall once he did, as if she were bearing down, Tate's arms tightening around her to keep her in place. She had needed to squat on the floor of this very bathroom once before, tensing her muscles and bearing down in much the same way, expelling a piece of a snapped condom, one he'd not even filled. Between the hot water and the automatic response of her pelvic floor, she would be empty of him before he turned the water off.

She was robbed of the chance to feel him pulsing within her, as she likely would have done flat on her back with her legs over his arms; robbed of the feeling of his heat pouring into her, as she might have on her knees with her ass in the air, the fat sac of his scrotum kissing her skin as he emptied; robbed of the opportunity to drag her fingers through the rivers of his thick, white release as it dripped from her, proof of what they'd done. Not in the shower, with any and all evidence washed away. She'd wanted to scream.

Still, though. The incident had shown that he was vulnerable. Not a magician in the shower! It had become her favorite part of their morning routine, and although she had not been able to replicate the events, every day she woke at his side brought a fresh opportunity.

She would follow him to the kitchen once he was dressed, flicking on his electric tea kettle as he put out chopped chicken and kibble for the feral cats he fed, sipping her tea and leaning against him at the kitchen counter. He would kiss her on his way out the door, and she would go back to bed, curling up in his empty spot, breathing in the familiar smell of him as she slept for another hour or two. Silent, secret, and sacred.

The rest of her days outside the environment of the office were just as enjoyable. She loved the comfortable little desk nook he'd made for her in his apartment, and she would finish her meager work for the day quickly. Unlike the days when she was forced onto campus, the rest of her time in Greenbridge Glen could be spent reading, browsing the little downtown shops, blessedly quiet in the off-season, or else seeking him out, learning more about the way his businesses were run and doing what she could to help without being a hindrance.

The distractions at the office were far less pleasant. Boorish executives who stared at her breasts in the elevators, the supervisors who overlooked her, the rude security guard in the parking lot. Co-workers she barely knew, whose presence she didn't miss.

And then, of course, there was Tannar.

It had only been a few weeks since she'd been coming back into the office, and already he had exhausted her reserve of goodwill.

When he entered the break room a few moments later with Edzin, Silva schooled her features into an impassive mask of serenity. Just think. If they had built the campus just a little closer to downtown, half these people would be ordering to-go from the coffee shop and you'd never need to see them at all.

Although as ever present as he'd been from the day he'd started in their office, Tannar now seemed subdued around her, quieter, a sharp departure from his previous overt flirtations. Silva wondered what tales were being told about her at the club, the gossip he must've been privy to since joining, but she pushed the thought away. Who cares? None of that matters.

"So, this one has fabric and color swatches, design sketches, and sample floral arrangements. There's a glossary of flowers, including what's in season when, just in case you want to pick things individually. This also has photos of up-lighting and table linens with a few swatches . . ."

"This is already overwhelming," Lurielle mumbled.

"I'm not going to bother with any of the other books I have. They're all Elvish, so . . . Really, if you want us to do the planning, Lurielle, we can. You and Khash just need to work out size and budget. Ris and I can do the rest. Oh, sugar . . . I left my other notebook at my desk. It has all the numbers in it for the local florists and caterers; you'll need that."

"See? I told you she'd make this look easy."

Silva pushed the wedding binder across the table to Lurielle, rising from her chair, laughing at Ris. Tannar was hovering as usual, waiting in the briskly moving line at the coffee machine, shooting puppy dog eyes at her every few minutes. Hopefully he'll be gone by the time you come back.

"I'm going to run and grab it. I'll be right back, okay? Start looking at some of the color options!" she encouraged, pushing her chair in and breezing out of the room behind the group who'd come in for coffee with a purposeful bounce, not sparing a glance back.

His voice rang out immediately, talking from the line, not even waiting for her to clear the doorway.

"So. . . she's seeing someone? That's what I gathered from social media."

Silva paused in the corridor, just on the other side of the break room door, listening as Tannar addressed her friends.

"Yeah, she is. Has been for a whi-ile." Lurielle's voice was a patronizing singsong, so out-of-character that Silva nearly gasped. "Why are you stalking her on social media is a better question."

"I'm not stalking her," Tannar answered hotly, also completely out-of-character for the normally benign and slightly boring elf. "We follow each other. I can't help that I see her posts. It's not like she's keeping them private. Who is this guy? Some of her friends said . . . Is she living with him? Is that where she is all week now? She doesn't come to anything at the club at all."

"Who are you talking about?" she heard Edzin ask, sounding lost. "The prissy princess?"

"Tannar, I can't even begin to tell you how wrong you are if you thought it was a good idea to pump someone from HR for personal info about a co-worker."

Unlike Lurielle, Ris sounded exactly the way she always did — firm, friendly, and slightly irritated. Good. He needs to let go of this crush. I'm not available.

"Oh, please." Tannar was unfazed by Ris's words. "Because this place is a paragon of professionalism. Seriously, though. I'm worried about her. I heard she's not even speaking to her mother! Is this guy worth it? Are they serious?"

Silva waited, feeling the earth rock beneath her feet as she did so. Yes. Yes, he's worth it. Yes, they're serious. Yes, they're in love. She swayed in place, waiting for one of her friends to give voice to an enthusiastic yes, confirmation outside of herself that she and Tate were as solid and steady to others as they felt to her in that secret, sacred bubble. She waited . . . but neither of them did.

Because it's inappropriate. Ris just said so. They're not going to tell him anything at all, other than to take a hint. But then again, Lurielle hadn't hesitated to confirm that Silva was seeing someone . . .

Seeing someone. It sounded so impersonal, so transient. So entirely temporary. It was not at all a good enough descriptor for the two of them. He called me his heartbeat.

"Is he . . ." Tannar's voice trailed off, and she held her breath, waiting, hearing his resigned grunt. "Does he treat her well? Can you at least tell me that?"

It was Ris who answered, breaking the terrible silence from her and Lurielle at last. So much for HR professionalism.

"Yes, he does. He treats her very well."

She didn't want to hear anymore, Silva decided. Ris had given voice to the part that mattered . . . still, she couldn't keep her hurt at bay. She trembled all the way back to her desk, replaying the brief exchange and the yawning silence from her friends. Hurt that neither Ris nor Lurielle seemed willing to term her relationship with Tate as serious, whether it was to Tannar or anyone else. And here you are as usual, going out of your way to be helpful for other people.

Everyone thinks you're a little girl playing house. Breaking rules because you can get away with it, before you go running back to Mommy. It was too close to what Tate himself had told her, that she needed to go home, back to her mother and a life that didn't include him. Well, you're not. They're all wrong. You need to start putting him in thirst trap poses and posting that online. Let's see if Tannar still wants to ask questions then.

Tannar and Edzin were gone when she returned to the break room a few minutes later, but Silva found that the damage was done.

She no longer felt particularly sociable, and she wondered if it was purely a consequence of her hurt feelings or if her prolonged isolation away from the office and her work friends had something to do with it as well. After all, she wasn't convinced that absence made the heart grow fonder. Only forgetful. Her conversation thread with Lurielle was buried so deep in her text messages, Silva knew she'd need to scroll to find it, an indication of how long it had been since Lurielle had contacted her unprompted. No one had called her for happy hour plans in weeks, and she highly doubted that they'd simply stopped the Gildersnood tradition. Most people operated on a policy out of sight, out of mind, Silva reminded herself, and it wasn't as if she had been aching to come back to work to see any of them, either.

Besides, she had worries of her own, not that she'd be sharing them with anyone here.

"Silva, I haven't seen you in forever!" Dynah squealed, having joined the table during Silva's brief absence, replacing the two goblins.

"Yeah, I've seen you more in the past two weeks than I have in three months," Ris observed, the cat that had apparently gotten hold of her tongue for the brief moment when Tannar asked his question having scurried off. "Are you back full-time again?"

Silva gave Dynah her sweetest smile, ignoring Ris's question for the moment. "I haven't seen you either! I thought maybe Gildersnood had closed!" Her laugh was like the tinkle of a bell, sharpened after a lifetime of the Elvish club and polished at sorority. "I passed them this morning and it didn't look empty, so I'm not sure! But I just wanted to make sure I got Lurielle this notebook. She and I have been like ships passing . . . Like I said, this has florists, the number of some all-purpose halls caterers. All the important stuff." Ris's question hung unanswered as she flipped the book open, showing Lurielle the index at the front.

She was no longer in the mood to share with her friends, and she certainly wasn't interested in sharing her relationship woes. It wasn't as if she was back in the office by choice. Silva didn't want to admit that Tate simply hadn't given her the opportunity, and she'd rather chew glass than talk about that now. None of them cared before . . . why would you tell them now? It's not like you're in a serious relationship.

She had spent more time at her actual workplace in the past two weeks than she had in the previous several months. Since early summer, she'd been taking advantage of the hybrid work policy, spending as much time as she could in Greenbridge Glen.

But ever since the night of Tate's party, when she'd drunk too much and banged her head, everything had changed.

"Dove, I've got new tables coming in and the floor's being refinished. It's going to be too loud for you to focus on work and too dusty besides."

"That's okay," she'd assured him, stretching up on her toes and kissing his cheek. "I can just go into work for a few days. As long as you're not going to miss me too much."

He'd turned, hooking an arm around her waist, catching her lips with his, kissing her deeply enough that her toes had curled. She'd left Greenbridge Glen with a happy hum in her heart, and thought nothing of his reasoning to send her away.

Instead of going into the office, Silva had decided to spend that week working from her own little apartment. She had begun going through her meager finances, knowing she was only playing at independence if she continued allowing her parents to subsidize her existence.

Silva knew she was luckier than most. She didn't carry any debt of her own. Her parents had paid for her education, paid off her credit card bills every month, and bought her car when she'd moved back to Cambric Creek. She had no student debt or heavy loans, the way many of her co-workers and acquaintances did, but her tasteful little apartment was well beyond her independent means. You'll need to move closer to the University. Off-campus housing was by no means inexpensive, but it would be easier on her budget than staying where she was, in this development of chic little walkups and rowhouses, popular with young executives. You might even need to find a roommate.

There was another solution, of course. She could move in with Tate. Find a job in Starling Heights, one that perhaps paid better, pick up some freelance work. That was the dream, but it was not something she would bring up first. Which means it'll never happen, because you'll turn to dust before he makes the first move with anything. Silva knew if she made even a half-hearted suggestion, Tate would act immediately, twisting himself like a contortionist to ensure her needs were met, that she was happy and comfortable. If she were to suggest moving in with him permanently, the apartment over the Plundered Pixie would be transformed overnight into a space for her . . . but she didn't want to be the one to make that suggestion.

The following week, he claimed there was an incident between two of the Orcish motorcycle clubs at the Tuesday night league and fretted over her safety, insisting he'd feel better if she was out of harm's way entirely. When she'd shown up that Friday morning, deciding the danger had surely passed by then, he'd blinked rapidly as she crossed through the bar from the front door, but had said nothing to make her think she was unwelcome, opening his arms when she'd reached him. If she noticed that the bar was packed and there seemed to be no animosity amongst the assembled orcs, lingering or otherwise, she kept it to herself.

It was that same night that Ris and Ainsley had unexpectedly come in, prompting Tate's even more unexpected confidence about his ill-fated attempt to meet his father.

You're going to hold him and comfort him and ask him nine million questions as soon as he comes to bed.

But she'd never gotten the chance.

Shortly after she'd waved to Ris from the sidewalk, the ancient dishwasher wheezed for the final time and gave her last groan, expelling what seemed to be an ocean of sudsy water across the back room floor. The water soon made it to the main barroom, the orcs inside evacuating in a panic as if they were all afraid of drowning. She'd attempted to be as helpful as she could, bailing out water with a little pail, but by the time two of the boys from the bistro had arrived as reinforcements and Tate and Rukh had watertight blockades set up, keeping the flood contained to the tiled backroom, Tate had suggested through gritted teeth that she go to bed. He never came upstairs that night and was still dealing with the flood the following morning, and she left with an unhappy wave and a peck on his cheek.

If it hadn't been such a mess, she might've thought he'd done it on purpose.

Then he was having painting done, claiming the chemical fumes would be too harsh for her to sleep in his bed.

"You've already been concussed on my watch, dove. I'll not have you huffing paint fumes on top of it. You're likely to go tumbling down the stairs this time."

She'd gone into the office that week, catching up with Dynah and laughing with Ris, attempting to avoid Tannar as much as possible, but Lurielle had been swamped with a team project, and they'd never had a chance to sit together.

"You basically have two sets of decisions to make," she went on now, as if wedding planning were the only thought in her head, "logistics and aesthetics. A caterer and a venue. If you book a hall, the caterer will be onsite, which takes care of both in one go . . . but your choices will be limited without a long lead time."

Silva couldn't help feeling as though she were slowly being discarded, like a tatty toy he'd grown tired of playing with. The mere thought felt like a colossal betrayal. She had been sure they had turned a corner, their little domestic routine feeling more real than any of the relationships she had pantomimed her way through in the past. The night of his party, his hand had stayed in hers for much of the evening, making it abundantly clear to all and sundry that they were together, they were real, that there was nothing to hide. She was free to be Silva of the Nighttime without splintering herself, and they were happy.

Then why is he doing this? Why is he pulling away? Why now?

"And then on the other side, start with a color scheme. If you're not particular about the type of flower, the florist can make do with a color palette and a budget. Let your attendants pick their own dresses to keep things easy for you. Really, everything is in the book. And if you see something you like, feel free to use it! I won't be needing any of that."

Silva didn't miss Ris's raised eyebrow, but she didn't care. Her skin itched, her insecurity and her hurt feelings manifesting itself into a prickliness she might not be able to control if she stayed in this room a second longer.

She was saved by Lurielle's alarm, announcing the end of their lunch, a perfect opportunity for Silva to make her escape. When she reached her desk, she scooped up her bag, powering down her laptop. There was a clock ticking somewhere above her, the reverberation of it making every minute that went by with them apart seem as if it increased the distance. Some hazy memory tugged in her mind at the mere thought, something about increased distance beyond her control, but she was unable to make sense of it.

She didn't need to be here. She didn't need to have her insecurities amplified by her friends, didn't need to put up with Tannar hovering over her. She didn't need any of it, or any of them.

All that she needed was in Greenbridge Glen, above the bar in the black brick pub.

She hadn't expected him to be home.

It was unusual for him to not be in the bistro or the pub in the middle of the day, remaking schedules or double checking cleaning lists, not that he needed to be. The absolute irony was for as busy as Tate always claimed to be, there was no one else she knew more able to simply walk away whenever he wanted.

It was a testament to his skills and professionalism, his industry know-how and his strict adherence to processes and accountability with his staff. Everyone was cross-trained. Rukh knew every piece of the Pixie's business, knew how to manage inventory and order, knew how to maintain the equipment and run the POS, knew the breakdown of their labor costs compared to their liquor sales. Failing that, Thessa did as well. Tate never truly had to be in the bar.

In his restaurant, Thessa and Cymbeline ran the front of the house seamlessly. They knew how to balance payroll, how to staff the service floor and the kitchen, knew when they needed to scale back the business in the colder months and have a full staff trained before the resort reopened in spring. Thessa had been working at Tate's side long enough that she knew all his tips and tricks, and she in turn was teaching Cymbeline all that she knew. Elshona ran the back of house, had absolute control over her kitchen and her staff, set the menu and ordered the food, with no need for Tate's interference.

He had set them all up for success so well that both businesses were able to run completely without him, and if he told Silva that he'd decided the two of them should simply vanish for a while, perhaps travel to Ireland to show her where he'd grown up, or else visit far-off cities she'd only seen in photographs, they could do so without anyone noticing they were gone. To find him home in the middle of the day shouldn't have been unusual, but with Tate being Tate, unable to help himself from micromanaging every corner of his life, it was.

Her hand barely reached out to test the doorknob when it swung open, Tate standing over her with a broom, his eyes wide.

"Dove." His mouth opened and closed like a fish, and if it had been under different circumstances, when she wasn't feeling so raw and discarded, Silva might have laughed. "I wasn't expecting . . . when did you get here?"

"I know you weren't expecting me," she said flatly, feeling her heart wince at his less-than-enthusiastic greeting.

Just a month ago, he would have swung her into his arms, kissing her soundly and voicing how happy he was to have her there. Are they serious? Not really, she's already overstayed her welcome.

"You weren't expecting me because you've been avoiding me." I heard she's not even speaking to her mother! Is this guy worth it? "I don't understand how this is supposed to work, Tate." Are they serious? "Every time I think we turn a corner, you go radio silent and I don't know where we stand all over again."

He had the good grace to look abashed, but Silva noticed he'd not yet moved from the center of the doorway.

"I've not been avoiding you, Silva. In case you've not realized, I'm well aware of the tension our relationship is causing you with your family. You were at home. I wanted to give you space to mend fences, dove, if you'd taken up the mending."

Her neck heated. Are they serious? No. They can't even go three months without him forgetting she exists. "You're not avoiding me, but you've not yet invited me in."

She could practically see the excuse forming on his lips when the insidious little voice in her head reared up. What's it going to be this time? Will he set something on fire just to claim it's an emergency? Invent a sister he needs to visit in the hospital? He's bored with you. He's not wanted you here since the night of his party. He's probably got someone else here, right now.

At the thought of some doe-eyed cervitaur or svelte nymph in the rooms where she was meant to be — in the kitchen where they made tea, where he'd bought a small step-ladder and dainty glasses just for her; in the living room where they stretched on the low sofa, where she played with his silky hair and they watched his favorite antiquing show; in the hallway; in the bathroom; in the bedroom where they shared those perfect mornings — her eyes filled with tears, and whatever nonsense reason he'd been dreaming up withered before it even had a chance to breathe.

"Dove, don't cry. You know I can't abide it. I hate seeing you upset."

She'd let him enfold her in his arms, the thin, kitten-soft material of his t-shirt soaking up her tears.

A small, frustrated sob escaped her throat as he scooped her up, turning them into the empty, echoing apartment. There was no afternoon dalliance lurking at the edge of the room. She still didn't know what it was about him that activated some primal impulse in her brain that turned her jealous and unreasonable, but there was no one there. There was nothing there at all. Nothing that she recognized, at least.

The pool table that had stood in the center of the apartment was gone. The pool table he'd placed her on the very first night he'd carried her up the black staircase, where she'd been placed countless times since, holding him inside her, where she'd been edged until she nearly sobbed, where she'd pulled his hair and bit his skin — now it was gone.

His modern, slate grey sofa was also gone, and in its place was a plumper one of a softer dove grey, with a matching loveseat. Lilac colored throw pillows graced both sofas, with a plum-colored cashmere throw that called out to be petted. To the side was a colorful, patchwork wingback chair, one that she had admired in one of the many showrooms they had browsed through weeks earlier. Her little office set up remained near the windows, and a white bookshelf now graced the side wall near her cabriolet-legged worktable. Where the pool table had once stood was now a huge Persian-style area rug tying the two sections of the room together, a medallion print at its center, dappled in shades of blue and grey and ochre.

Silva had nearly fallen in her haste out of his arms. The space was lovely. She realized he had painted as well, the stark white walls softened in ecru, much more homey, something she herself would've picked out. The whole room was something she would've picked out, right down to the cascading pothos hanging near the bookshelf. If this had been the result of him deciding she ought to live with him, Silva might have been ecstatic, but there was a glaring omission to the decor, one that twisted her insides and made her heart crumple.

There was nothing left of him to speak of.

She spun around, nearly toppling as her eyes filled with tears once more. "What-what did you do? Where did everything go? Tate, what did you do?! Where's the pool table?"

His dark eyebrows had come together in consternation, his eyes tightening, and she could almost see his mind trying to work out where he'd miscalculated. Seemingly for the first time since they'd met, Silva took note of the permanent furrow between his brow, the tiny lines around his eyes as they tightened. He was exhausted and tense. He looked miserable, and the thought that she was the reason had a sob brewing in her chest.

"Do you not like it, dove? The pool table is downstairs, where it belongs. We had need of it for league play anyway. I want you to be comfortable here, Silva."

"I am comfortable here! Why did you get rid of all your things?!"

He waved away her words with a small shrug and a click of his tongue, his genuine look of bewildered concern melting into the mask of disaffected nonchalance he wore so often. Her stomach twisted to see it here, in the place where he was meant to set his masks aside.

"It was just a sofa. I should've gotten rid of it two years ago. My back might not be as banjaxed as it is if I had."

Her jaw moved, but she could not form words to rebut his casual claim. It wasn't just the sofa, she wanted to scream, already knowing he'd point out that it was, in fact, just the sofa that was gone. He could rationalize needing the pool table downstairs, even though the Pixie and her clientele had not needed it at any point in the past year. It was, technically, just the sofa.

But it was also the paint and the rug and the soft, watery color palette. He'd replaced an older piece of furniture with something brand-new, was what she knew he would tell her. But he had replaced it with something for her. Something in her style, soft and cozy and classic, something that she might have chosen for her own apartment.

She didn't like the pressure that was clawing at her throat, and didn't want to give voice to the ridiculous swell of emotions she felt. He would tell her it was nothing at all, but Silva couldn't help feeling that he had managed to erase himself from his own space, and that he'd somehow done it with nothing more than a rug and a bit of paint.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Silva—"

She didn't feel inclined to give him a chance to make excuses as she wiped at her tears. "Why are you pushing me away?"

She didn't understand him. She didn't understand anything. He had been avoiding her. She'd not imagined that. Since the night of his party, he'd been putting her off, keeping her way, coming up with one excuse after another. And yet, at the same time, he'd redecorated his entire apartment . . . specifically for her. Silva turned, surveying the distressingly lovely room once more, feeling sick as she did so. It made no sense. Nothing about the situation made sense, and she wondered if that extended to their relationship at large. Are they serious? How can they be? They don't make any sense at all.

"Why would you do this? This is all for me, Tate. Don't pretend it's not."

She whirled to face him, eyes wide and still brimming with tears. Every tender moment of the past several months played back in her head in a whir, like a sped-up movie reel.

She had discovered a sofa on the roof, tucked under an alcove and protected from the elements, near the overgrown garden he had been tending. He and Elshona had put it there when they'd first put the garden in, before abandoning the project, he'd explained with laugh. It had become her favorite retreat on those balmy summer nights, pulling him up the staircase to snuggle with her beneath the stars. He'd set up a bistro table and two chairs beside the garden plot and strung fairy lights against the brick, creating a perfect romantic dinner spot for two, which they indulged in several times a week. A bottle of wine, whatever gourmet feast he cooked for her, and their feet propped up on the edge of the building when they moved to the sofa, where he would kiss her slowly in the warm air, sultry and secret and sacred.

He'd taken her to a speakeasy-style underground poker club, where she'd delighted in batting her eyelashes and working on her hustle, celebrating her ill-gotten gains on chocolate martinis at the dessert bar in Starling Heights, as he had laughed so hard into her hair he claimed he was going to be sick. They had walked along the waterfront there, pausing to listen to the selkies calling to each other in the blackness, invisible out in the waves.

She had watched as he took his sleek racing motorcycle apart piece by piece, painstakingly putting it all back together again before she donned the helmet he'd purchased for her. She had clung to his back, squeezing him with her thighs and holding on for dear life, the sound of her screams lost to the wind as they sped along the rural highway far too fast, but almost like flying. He had painted her toenails and she had braided his hair, and she didn't know how it was that all of that seemed so broken and far away just a few weeks later.

"You don't want me here. You've made that crystal clear for the past month. You don't want me around, you're pushing me away, and I don't understand why."

She was unable to continue through her tears, her throat closing on a sob she managed to choke down as he closed the distance between them, pulling her into his arms once more.

"Dove, you couldn't be more wrong."

She pushed against his chest, batting ineffectually like a tantruming kitten, but his arms never slackened.

"There's never a minute of the day when I'm not thinking about you, Silva. There's not a single day I don't want you here. I want you with me every second of every day, by my side, but that's the worst place for you right now. This is the only way I know how to keep you safe, dove."

"Safe from what?!" He explained it away so easily. She thought his reasoning should have been just as easy, but he only shook his head, looking pained. "I'm so tired of being treated like I'm too delicate to know where we stand. People treat me like I'm an empty-handed little doll, and I'm so tired of it. If you don't want me here, Tate, just say so and I'll go. But stop treating me like I'm stupid."

"Oh, but you are being stupid, Silva."

There was no heat behind his words, but she heard the vehemence there as she shook with frustration. She wanted to hit him, wanted to shred his skin with her nails, wanted to reduce him to pulp for making her feel this way, just as much as she wanted to wrap him in her arms and protect him from any more hurt, pulling them back to one of those soft, summertime memories. Right now, though, all she wanted to do was scream.

"I've told you once before, you're the only one playing against the odds. You have everything to lose and you're throwing it all away. For what, dove?" Tate gripped her chin, two of his long fingers stretching up to span her face, tilting her up to face him, holding her in place before him. "I'm trying to keep you safe from me, Silva. I'm the scariest thing in the dark, remember?" He had locked onto her with a vise-like grip, and there was no shaking him off. "This is what I do, Silva. This is what I am. I'm good at fooling people, that's my strength. I'm good at making you believe that all is grand, that I'm a good sport, that I can be of value to your life. You walk away thinking we're the best of mates and you never question my intentions for a second."

His thumb drifted, finding her pulse point. Silva felt the pressure, knew how easily he could crush her windpipe without even exerting much effort. She leaned in, increasing the press.

"I'm good at slipping my way in, dove. And by the time you realize what I am and that you're in danger, my jaws are already at your neck. I'm a monster, Silva. That's what I've always been. And I can't keep you safe if you're here."

For the first time, Silva didn't shy away. She was tired of having this conversation as well.

"And you're so certain that a monster isn't what I want. Maybe I want teeth at my neck, did you consider that?" Her voice was little more than a whisper, trembling with her frustration. "Did you think that maybe that's what I need? That maybe I want to be devoured? That you're the only one who's not seeing things clearly?"

His lips met hers roughly, her head bouncing from the force with which he yanked her forward, but her hands were now free and she scraped her nails down his neck, feeling the needle-like glance of his teeth.

"Maybe I just want an excuse to be a monster, too, Tate."

At that, his arms came around her, scooping her up as if she truly were nothing more than an empty-headed little doll. The perfect-for-her room made her stomach churn, but the bedroom, thankfully, was untouched.

Silva dragged the thin T-shirt over his head before he'd even placed her on the bed, catching on the edge of his bun until he yanked it free. She wasted no time.

"I hate the way you make me feel. I've never been jealous before, I've never been paranoid before. But you make me that way." She raked her nails over him, as hard as she could, wishing she'd had the foresight to sharpen them to points. He had dropped her to the bed and she quickly rose on her knees, regaining her position before him. "And then you pull away. You do this to me over and over, Tate, and I hate it." Silva wished she wasn't still crying, wished she was harder. "I should hate you, I should have already written you off." The mere thought made her voice cut off, unable to continue before sucking in a breath. "But then my heart feels like it's being ripped away. And I hate that more."

She was positive it was not normal to think about cutting her boyfriend's chest open and climbing inside him like a suit of armor. It's the closest way to his heart. It was never something she would repeat out loud to anyone, but it was something she thought about just the same.

He was breathing hard, his chest heaving as if he had just run a marathon, standing beneath her palms as she moved down the hard plane of him.

"I already told you — it's yours, dove," he rasped as she dragged her nails over the thump of his heartbeat, his hand flattening over hers, trapping it there. "You can do as you see fit with it. Do you want me to carve it out for you right now, Silva? Give you something to remember me by? I will, if you want it."

She wasn't asking for much, Silva was certain. She simply wanted to be close to him. To not feel as though she could get on a plane that same night and fly away, and that he would actually care one way or another. To know what he was thinking at all times, to be close enough to lick his secrets and his dreams, to feel the pump of his heart beneath her fingers. To make him bleed, to feel the heat of him, slick against her palms.

She watched welts appear on his lovely green skin as she dragged her nails over him, but his teeth were sharper, and he drew first blood. His kiss carried the metallic tang, their mouths sliding over where it welled from her lip, moving the heat of it on his tongue. It wasn't enough, and wasn't what she wanted.

Her own teeth were not sharp, were not crowded, did not descend like daggers, but she did her best as she clamped down on his lower lip, feeling him hiss against her when she broke the skin. His blood tasted like ichor. Metallic and sweet, as if he had a vein of nectar running through him, pumping out from his heart.

"I don't know how to keep you safe, Silva. I don't know how to keep you safe and keep you close."

Her lips were slick with him, and she kissed down his throat, feeling his pulse jump against her. Silva wondered if she had a bit of vampire running through her, for at that moment, there was nothing more appetizing in the world than his heartbeat, jumping in the long, delicate column of his throat. She dragged her small, blunt teeth over the pulse of it, over his Adam's apple, scraping over his clavicle, leaving a trail of her own blood behind, like an ancient ritual. They were going to make a mess of the sheets at this rate, but she didn't care as she pulled open his belt. He was already hard, and she wanted him inside her.

"I don't want you to keep me safe. I want you to ruin me for anyone else."

She was still wearing her work dress, a textured shift in a lightweight ivory wool, piped in emerald at the neck and pockets. Silva gave a small cry as it came apart in his hands, as if he were shredding a piece of tissue.

"What do you want me to be, Silva?"

Now she was breathing just as hard as him, flipped down to the mattress, staring up at him as blood leaked down their chins. Tate plucked the pastel string of her thong as if he were playing a harp, drawing the filmy scrap of fabric down and throwing it away, doing the same to the lace-cupped bra a moment later.

"I don't know who I need to be for you anymore, dove. Do you want me to play the gentleman? The proper Elvish suitor?"

He paused, curling over her. Silva was reminded of that first day she'd come back with Lurielle, standing in the middle of Clover's dining room, feeling as though she were being stalked by a beast with great jaws. His teeth grazed her nipples, but his focus was lower, and he did not slow from his target. The first slide of his tongue over the hot folds of her cunt made her whimper. He licked her open slowly, savoring, spreading her lips until the tip of his tongue reached the top of her sex. Silva quivered, feeling the needle-like sensation of his teeth at the hood of her clit.

"Do you want me to treat you like a glass doll, Silva?"

His breath was hot against her. Another long lick, teeth grazing her mound. She whimpered when he teased at her entrance, finding her already slick. Her back arched as two long fingers curved into her, sliding into place as if they were coming home, dragging over just the right spot.

"Protect you from anyone who seeks to do you harm? Play croquet and drink tea with you?"

His mouth descended then, licking her with single-minded precision, words ceasing. Silva arched again, feeling as though he were going to suck her out of existence every time his lips fastened around the bud of her clit. His wrist thumped against her, fingers sliding within her in a way that only he knew she liked, rubbing over her g-spot insistently, touching some hidden recess of her anatomy that only he seemed to know how to find.

She gripped fistfuls of the plush white bedding, but his other hand had come down on her hip, holding her in place, trapped beneath his mouth. She was unable to buck up against him, unable to shift or thrust, unable to do anything but accept the onslaught of his tongue.

Just like that day in the shower, her thighs began to tremble as she ascended to her peak. She was already tense and desperate for some sort of release, feeling the tension twisting at her belly, making her insides jump in anticipation. His tongue was flickering back and forth at just the right angle, sucking with just the right pressure, fingers within her hitting just the right spot. She was going to come on his tongue, and then they could go back to arguing.

"Or do you want me to be a fiend, dove? Because that's what I am. That's what my kind are. We take and we ruin. That's it. I can't be both for you."

She was already there, already ascending the white gold peak of her orgasm, her back already beginning to arch when his teeth came down on the hood of her clit. Silva screamed, a shower of stars before her eyes, feeling as if he'd ripped part of her away as she came against him, bleeding and pulsing against his tongue. Good. It wasn't a part she needed, more than likely. More room for him to crowd inside of her to be close to her heart.

Her body shook like a live wire, her jaw dropping open and her hands closing convulsively, his tongue continuing to stroke her, aided by the increased slickness of her blood. It burned, the pulsing contractions of her orgasm making it simultaneously worse and so much better, and she sobbed beneath him as she writhed.

He was going to need to throw this entire duvet away.

When she finally came down, Silva lay there quivering, unable to move as Tate crawled up her body.

"Careful what you wish for, dove," he whispered against her bloodied lips. His face, from his nose to his chin, was a red smear, covered in her. "That's one of the first rules of treating with the fae. Careful where you wander. Don't ever accept gifts. Don't eat their food. Careful what you wish for. There's no such thing as a fairy tale with a happy ending, Silva. And now you're ruined. I'd like to see the purple-skinned cunt who will make you scream that way for him."

When he settled on top of her, Silva dug her fingers into his hair, squeezing as hard as she could. Squeezing hard enough to wind back the clock, to make this horrible, heavy pendulum that seemed to be swinging over them cease its movement. That was all she needed to do. Rewind them back a month, rewind the coil that had kinked and tightened around his heart, closing her out. Rewind them back to several weeks ago, when they would wake together in this bed, in the early predawn light, soft and sacred and secret. Take them back, and stop the incessant ticking of this clock.

The first press of his cockhead within her made her head drop back again, his lips at her throat as he seated himself fully. Those delicious ridges dragged against her, making her feel as if her lungs were tied to the back of her navel, pulling and making it impossible to breathe. When he began to move, Silva wrapped her legs around him as tightly as she could, crying out when he lifted them over his arms. Her entire body was on fire and her eyes burned with tears, but those fae ridges were once again hitting just the right spot. He would never be close enough and she was so tired of being told what she could and could not do. There was no room for anything but the two of them in that moment.

She was familiar with the underwater sensation they seemed to have slipped into. The room around them was frozen, the sound of a truck backing up in the alley hazy and far away. Nothing existed but the two of them, the taste of his blood on her lips, the burn of him within her, and the slide of his teeth as they descended like knives. The pressure of this strange, liminal space pressed on her lungs, but she didn't care about that either. He met her lips roughly when she directed his head, breathing for both of them.

Silva felt slack-jawed, squeezing her thighs around him, squeezing her hand in his hair, holding on for dear life as he fucked her, deep and hard and wild. It felt like some mad fertility ritual, both their faces bloodied, her body on fire from where he had bitten her like an animal. She wanted to feel him come inside her, complete the ritual. They had argued and she had cried and they had both drawn blood from the other. The least he could do was fill her the way she'd been dreaming of.

"I want you," she whimpered into his hair. "Every part. The gentleman and the fiend."

She was going to come again. His cock was at just the right spot, moving at just the right tempo, giving her just what she needed, and her body was ready to sing.

"Are you going to come for me, Silva? I want to feel you squeeze me tight. Squeeze me hard enough that I'll never forget it."

It hurt. She couldn't pretend otherwise. But the white-hot pain was edged in a shimmering pleasure as she slipped over the edge once more, her pulsing contractions again sending a lightning bolt up her spine, radiating from where his teeth had sunk into her. When she clenched around him, Silva tightened her grip. Arms around his back, legs over his hips, her hand in his hair.

"You're mine, Silva. You'll always be mine."

Her eyes rolled back at the pressure when he erupted within her. She and the girls had joked once before about their ancestors, how those ancient elves had been ravaged by orcs and ogres and other large species over the centuries, taking their huge cocks until they took them with ease. It was because of those ancestors that the three of them were able to enjoy having Orcish lovers.

The stretch of him already made her eyes roll back, fullness and pressure of him within her delicious enough on its own that she couldn't get enough. This, though. This was completely different. Hot within her, filling her like a water balloon as he came, the pressure almost enough to send her over the edge again as she squeezed around him. Silva closed her eyes tight, imagining his cock within her, expelling rope after rope of his thick white release, spattering her cervix.

She would never be able to be with him again and not experience this.

When they were both boneless, Tate attempted to lift himself from her, but she refused to be dislodged.

"Silva . . . Silva, did I hurt you? Dove?" For the first time since the night they'd met, Tate's lilting voice was anguished and uncertain. "Are you—"

"I'm perfect."

It was true. She felt as if she were floating, drifting on a cloud of euphoria. She pulled him back down, their bodies still joined, forcing his head down against the bed with her as he shifted them, rolling slightly. Their faces were bloodied and she wasn't sure if her clit was ever going to stop burning, but they were fine. They were perfect. She wouldn't let them be anything else.

"My fierce and lovely Boudicca."

Her laugh was choked, and she squeezed his hair again, rubbing her nose over his blood-smeared clavicle. Tate tilted her chin and smoothed back her hair, wincing as he dabbed at her bloodied lip with the side of his knuckle.

"Fucking Mab, we're a right mess. I thought you only turned cannibal out of town."

For a long, perfect moment, they could do nothing but laugh. A choked laughter, held between their lips as their shoulders shook and their arms tightened. Sacred and secret and only for them. When it subsided and the only sound left was his thudding heartbeat beneath her cheek, Silva closed her eyes against the tears that burned once more.

"Why does it feel like something terrible is about to happen?"

For a long while, Tate said nothing. Silva focused on the feel of him within her, wishing she could hold their bodies together forever in this bloody little bubble. Secret and sacred. She wondered if he was going to say anything at all, or if he was going to give her another one of his half answers, speaking in riddles, when his voice murmured against her.

"Because the veil is growing thinner. Every day they get closer. I can't keep you safe here, Silva."

She could say nothing in response. It didn't seem real, what he was talking about. It is always night in her Majesty's forest.

"Well, that's too bad," she said at length. "Because you belong to me."

Tate raised his head, pushing her hair back, honey eyes glinting like flames.

"Aye, dove. That I do. But right now we're going to get up and we're going to attempt to not track fucking blood and cum all through the flat."

She couldn't help her giggle, only increasing with his glare. "Then what?"

"Then I'm putting you in the most tepid bathwater you can stand and determining if I need to give you field stitches. We need to get you cleaned up. The ultimate irony would be to have Tír na nóg come calling and you're here alone because I'm being held without bond for bloodying your face."

She laughed all the way to the tub, clinging to his neck as he ran the water, just a hair warmer than room temperature, as promised. Silva winced as he cleaned her, holding her breath at the burn, but it was worth it. She did not have the benefit of his teeth, and wondered if he would ever give her the opportunity to repay him in kind on his own delicate anatomy. Maybe with a knife. But just a tiny one.

Her head dropped back against his hands as he cleaned her hair, using her strawberry rose shampoo, the bottle she purchased specifically to keep in his bathroom. When he'd rinsed her clean, Tate leaned in, pressing his lips to her temple.

"It looks like you've been in a back alley knife fight, but I think you'll live. Nothing a bit of paracetamol and a dab of bacitracin can't fix."

"It's going to burn when I pee, isn't it."

Tate turned away, scooping up the mess of bloody towels on the floor, hiding what she suspected was a cough of laughter. "Well, good luck with that part. We need to get you some emergency birth con—"

"I have an implant," she interrupted, closing her eyes. "I've had it since school. May I have something cold to drink?"

Elderflower iced tea, cold and crisp and exactly what she needed, Silva thought as he combed out her hair, sipping from the icy glass he'd brought her. She was feeling restored, as if the bloodletting had helped them both. See? Those ancients knew what they were doing.

"Can you walk on your own, dove?" When she nodded, he kissed her again. He had washed his face in the sink, dragging a wet cloth down his neck and over his chest, and had already pulled his clothes back on. "Good. I'm going down to let Rukh know I'm leaving, then I'm going over to have a talk with the girls. Pack me a bag while I'm gone."

"Pack — but why? For what? What are we doing?"

Tate cupped her cheek, tapping her on the nose before pushing up, towering over her in the tub. "I'm taking you back to Cormorant Creek. We're going to have one of those honey lattes before you take me to one of these allegedly excellent bistros for dinner. Although I'll be the judge of that, I think."

Silva settled back in her bathwater, pondering his words once the door had clicked shut behind him. A month ago, she would have done backflips like a little circus poodle if he would've expressed the vaguest interest in accompanying her to dinner in Cambric Creek. Now, it only felt like a way to bring her back where he thought she belonged so that he could leave her there. We'll see about that.

She'd not let him shut her out. She wasn't going to allow him to push her away again, or hold her at arm's length. She was going to wind back the clock, force it to stop this infernal ticking, get them back on track. He could cooperate, or she would bloody him again, Silva decided. The choice was his.