Chapter 15

15

Molly awoke to a new day with a hopeful glimmer in her heart. Going to sleep the night before, she’d decided, for her own sake and Allarion’s, she would close the chapter on her first fortnight here fresh—not start over but anew. They would move forward, as he’d said.

Stretching under the luxurious bedding, she rolled around in a happy little wiggle. Without the burden of dread, she practically floated from the bed to her things.

It was as she laced her stays that she took a long look at her things. Still strewn about the far side of the room, her clothing, a few keepsakes, and what she’d gotten from Mullon sat in unkempt piles. Things were getting wrinkled and a bit rank, if she was honest. She’d need to do laundry soon, but she could get a little more life out of a few things if she finally…

Drawing in a deep breath, she looked over at the armoire.

“All right,” she said.

She opened one of the doors before the other went flying open and the drawers began to open one after the other, making a harmony. The house opened and closed the cedar trunk lid as if it clapped. Finally, it seemed to say.

“I know, I know,” she laughed. “I just do things in my own time is all.”

The house rattled the shutters in what sounded like laughter to her. Molly laughed along, folding and hanging her things.

She couldn’t help a smidge of trepidation as her things disappeared into drawers and the trunk lid shut. The room almost looked bare once she finished—or at least, she could see the floorboards. There was still a line of vases full of bouquets atop the dresser. The flowers Allarion left never seemed to wilt or die.

With more space freed up, she redistributed the bouquets around the room.

Pleased with the bursts of color, Molly planted her hands on her hips and nodded. All of Allarion’s pestering about this wallpaper and those curtains made a bit more sense now; he wanted her opinion on fixing up the house, and he’d gotten her thinking about where things would look best.

Decorating wasn’t something she had much experience with, but given the chance, she thought she could come to quite like it.

A vase full of foxgloves sat waiting for her when she opened her bedchamber door. Her smile was uncontrollable as she bent to retrieve it, and she took the gift with her down to the kitchen.

Allarion began to smile when she entered the kitchen, but the sight of the flowers had him looking suddenly serious.

“Are the flowers not to your liking?”

“I like them a lot. So much, I want to look at them today.” She positioned the flowers behind the kitchen sink, in the window that looked out at the forest beyond. The growing morning sunshine caught in the blue and purple cones, giving them a velveteen quality.

That smile took flight on his face, although Molly suspected he contained the full scope of his happiness at her liking his gift. Charmed, she went about preparing her breakfast as they made light chatter, talking of the weather and the work for the day.

“And what am I to do?” she asked as her oats boiled.

“Whatever you want to do,” was his sweet but unhelpful answer.

“I’ve already laid in bed and wandered aimlessly for days. What if I helped you with your project today?”

“Absolutely not.”

She looked up in surprise to hear his vehemence.

Allarion shook his head, quickly amending, “Forgive me, sweetling. It’s only, I’ll be finishing the roof today and under no circumstances will I have you up there. It’s dangerous.” He lowered his head, looking at her from beneath his rigid brows. “This is one of those matters of safety I spoke of.”

Molly nodded in agreement. “All right. I don’t really relish the idea of getting on the roof anyways.”

His shoulders sagged in relief, making her notice how stiffly he’d been holding himself in anticipation of her answer.

“I could keep you company, then?”

She glanced up to see his reaction as she poured her steaming oats into a bowl. A blush crept onto her cheeks to see the way his expression went soft at her suggestion.

“I would like that very much.”

Decided, Molly made quick work of her breakfast and then followed Allarion to see about his project. He showed her the dwindling pile of blue-gray shingles, already loaded onto a pulley. Pushing his sleeves to his elbows, he took one end of the rope and began to pull, hoisting the heavy load up, up, up the four stories to the roof.

Molly marveled, watching how his forearms tensed with strength, his sinews and tendons pulled taut. She bit back her grin to think he did it on purpose, to show off. Well, that was all right, she supposed. They were betrothed—and he had very fine forearms.

When the load neared a balcony, he secured the rope and led her up, up, up to where the shingles waited. She watched as he leapt onto the sloped side of a nearby gable, clambering gracefully up onto the roof.

Those long, pointed ears cast a shadow on her as he leaned over the side to grin at her.

“You should be safe there, and I can hear you.”

“You’re sure you wouldn’t prefer the birds for company?” she teased, watching a handful of pigeons gather on a cylindrical ceramic chimney.

His look soured. “Honestly, no. They have defecated on me once too often.”

Molly bent in half laughing, startling the pigeons and Allarion, too. It was a while before she got her humor under control.

As Allarion began his work, Molly called up, “Why do you have to do this manually? Why can the house not…fix itself?”

The questions felt so silly in her mouth, the words in a ridiculous order and pairing, but Allarion’s shadow nodded as if she made perfect sense.

“The house is an entity unto itself and can only control what makes it up. Its rooms are like its limbs, and everything inside it makes up the body. It has no control over what is not part of it, so until new materials are added to it, it cannot, say, replace shingles.”

Molly’s brows rose, surprised over how much sense that actually made.

“So, once it’s added to the house, it becomes part of the house?”

“Exactly that.”

“So…all my things I put away this morning are now part of the house?”

His hammering stopped abruptly, and his pale face appeared again over the eaves. Those dark eyes bore down on her. Molly held still, her heart fluttering with an excited little thrill.

“Did you?” he asked softly.

“I did. Does that mean my things are now the house’s?”

“They are still yours,” he assured her.

Indeed, when Molly went to her bedchamber to fetch her embroidery project, she found that the clothes she’d stored away in the armoire and trunk were freshly washed and ironed for her.

“How…?”

The shutters rattled in a happy cacophony, and Molly couldn’t help laughing along.

“Well, thank you! That saves me some chafed fingers.”

She headed back to the fourth level in awe. No laundry! Other than feeding herself, she had so few chores to keep busy. She truly would need to find something to occupy herself, which was why she’d retrieved her project.

Setting up a stool, Molly sat on the balcony, enjoying the cool autumn afternoon, a shawl around her shoulders and her embroidery in her lap as she chatted with Allarion on the roof.

They talked about a little of everything. She learned he was one of five siblings, with two elder sisters and two younger brothers. In his years after leaving service, he went to each of his siblings, hoping to find purpose and inspiration in what they did. While he learned a great deal from each that proved useful, none of it was a true calling like that of being a warrior had been when he was young.

“Now, though,” he said, peering down at her to flash those fangs in a toothy grin, “I feel it all over again.”

“Found a passion for home renovation, have you?”

He chuckled at her joke. “Indeed, all the human nobles will glow with envy to see my skill.”

Molly laughed as she bit off her green thread. It was time to start with the red.

She took breaks to eat and stretch her legs, yet she was still amazed when the sun began to set over the trees. Allarion inserted the final few shingles as the sky, shot through with violet and saffron, deepened with impeding night.

They’d spent the whole day chatting while working on their projects. Molly had nearly finished her sleeve, impressed with her progress. It was amazing what having the time to devote to something could do.

Allarion levered himself back onto the balcony, looking as pleased as a cat who’d swallowed a bird. His silvery hair had been mussed and stuck to his skull with sweat in places, and his pale face was smudged with grime.

Grinning, Molly pulled out a kerchief to wipe his face.

It wasn’t until she’d placed the cloth to his cheek that she noticed how positively still he’d gone. Her eyes snapped to his, and they stared at each other as she finished cleaning him off.

Her hand lingered on his cheek, the contour so sharp and inhuman. She almost wished…the cloth didn’t separate them.

Keeping her gaze, Allarion bowed his head to press his lips to the inside of her wrist.

“Thank you, sweetling,” he rumbled against her skin.

“For what?” she said, tucking her kerchief and hand back into her pocket.

“For today. For your company. I hope you weren’t too bored.”

“Not at all.”

Offering his arm, she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow and let him lead her back down into the kitchen. In the better light, he asked to see her embroidery and spent a good few moments tracing the patterns and colors with a fingertip.

As Molly began preparing her dinner, she stole glances at him from under her lashes, anticipation stringing her tight.

“This is beautiful work,” he extolled. “You have an artist’s eye, my love.”

Blushing with pleasure, she made the necessary refutations, she wasn’t that good and her lines could be neater, even though she practically glowed with the praise.

They’d spent the lion’s share of the day talking about him and his life in the faelands, which Molly was perfectly content with, curious as she was about all things magic and fae now, but as he continued to admire her work, he managed to shift conversation to her. Molly was far less content to talk about herself, but she supposed, if he took the time to ask, she may as well answer.

“My mother taught me, initially,” she said, “and I kept at it.”

Allarion nodded gravely. “And where is your mother now?”

It took effort, but Molly told him her story. All of it. From life in the village with her parents to the plague to going to live with Uncle Brom. Allarion sat quietly, absorbing what she said.

When she dared look up at him to see what he thought, she was relieved to find not pity but empathy shining through those dark eyes. It was strange…he wasn’t the most expressive person, yet she knew from looking at him that he hurt for her. It was the angle of his mouth, the somber turn of his shoulders. And it was how he asked her questions she never thought of—and listened to the answers.

Did she remember the sound of her mother’s voice? What was her favorite thing her father would say? He asked her all sorts of things—her favorite scent of Dundúran or color of the sunset. All things Molly knew but had to think about. And while some of the answers were painful, that pain was easier to bear when she knew she confided in someone who cared to hear.

And so their days went, Molly joining Allarion in his work, or if she couldn’t, finding things for herself to do.

With the roof complete, Allarion turned his focus to the solar next to the library. He insisted it would be her solar, where she could work on her own projects and fill the room with whatever she wanted. Molly hadn’t known what to say other than, “Thank you.”

Growing serious, Allarion closed the distance between them. With a crooked finger, he lifted her chin so she met his gaze when he said, “There is no thanks needed here, sweetling. It is your due. ”

Throat running dry, Molly could only nod.

That was much easier said than done for someone who’d had to earn or take or steal every scrap she’d ever had.

Still, even if she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around his sentiment, it gave her a thrill to hear it. Her due. Imagine.

Between the solar and the unused room beside it, Molly became an expert in hanging wallpaper. Used to physical labor but not so much the skilled labor it took to redecorate a great house, she endeavored to learn quickly and came to enjoy the work.

When they next went to Mullon—this time with Bellarand pulling a cart after a ferocious argument over it—they sought furniture to fill the rooms. That was how she found herself with a beautiful set of armchairs for under the bay windows of her solar, a little table to sit in between them, a long worktable, and a chest of drawers for all her supplies. Allarion hunted for a table and chairs to put in the conservatory, so they could sit there in the evenings and watch the stars.

This time, he let her haggle to her heart’s content, and Molly enjoyed showing how ruthless she could be when it came to a discount. She wasn’t ashamed or afraid to use Bellarand for effect if it meant more money off, either.

Before her eyes, the solar became a dreamy green escape, where she could tuck into a cozy chair and sew. The rich green drapes and sage green walls, with the tall windows looking out into the forest beyond, made the room feel like an extension of the sylvan scene just outside. Molly even pulled a few of her small keepsakes from her room to display on the fireplace mantel, making the room hers with a touch of old and new.

On more than one occasion, they settled after dinner in their respective spaces, Molly in an armchair with her sewing, Allarion at his large desk in the library. With the connecting door open, she had but to look up to see him scratching away at his ledgers and maps.

She…liked it. That they could spend their days together in companionable chatter but then also be close in the evenings in equally pleasant quiet.

Molly had sometimes stolen up to her room above the tavern with her sewing, opening her window to hear the bustle of the city at night. She listened to the vendors come home for the day, the street performers play their sets, and the congenial chatter of the neighborhood. Here, it was forest noises and Allarion rustling paper, but she still enjoyed the quiet serenity of it.

She also liked stealing glances at him as he worked at his desk. Molly wasn’t a strong reader or writer, but she appreciated how his hand moved across the page, quill held masterfully in his fingers. The angle of his brow and curve of his neck as he bent his head over a ledger, how his lips parted as he traced a finger over a map…Molly felt it as if it was her skin he pored over.

Fates, there was something wrong with her, that she was starting to find those pointed ears charming and his sharp fangs endearing. With every day, his otherness inspired admiration, even…lust rather than aversion.

As she watched him work, whether on his books or on a wall or chopping wood, she grew to appreciate the sharp lines of his body and the fluid grace of his movements. He was all coiled strength, skin stretched taut over densely packed muscle. A wildcat, beautiful and dangerous, and Molly liked him all the more for that danger.

Definitely something wrong with me.

Except, nothing about it, about him, truly felt wrong. Quite the opposite.

As well as helping on projects, Molly decided to take up hobbies or skills she’d been meaning to. She set herself to improving her reading, she endeavored to keep the garden alive, and she even tried her hand at drawing. Her cooking and baking got more creative, too. Even if he didn’t eat, Allarion seemed to enjoy hanging around the kitchen as she cooked, watching her chop and knead and stir.

Eventually, she put him to work.

She couldn’t help laughing at his abysmal chopping skills, although his determination to see it through had her smiling.

“It’s nothing like stabbing an enemy,” he remarked as he butchered a radish.

“No, it’s not,” she choked on her laugh.

He held the knives awkwardly—and it was more than being a rich scion from a great house, it was the untried movements of someone who’d truly never prepared food nor even watched someone do it. Still, he tried his best—and covered in seasoning and sauce, his ugly cutting made little difference.

Even better, Molly discovered he could sing.

They stood preparing the night’s dinner, chopping vegetables, when Allarion asked if there was truly nothing she liked about serving at the tavern.

“Oh, there were things I enjoyed.”

“What was your favorite?”

That was easy. “The songs.”

He looked up in curiosity, and Molly explained the nights when singing would take over the tavern. Bawdy ballads and sea shanties, she loved leading or joining in with the patrons in a round of singing. No one cared if they harmonized or sounded halfway decent—most were drunk, after all—it was only about the camaraderie and good cheer.

“Would you sing for me?” he asked.

Molly’s stomach flipped with nerves. Her first instinct was to deny him, that she couldn’t possibly sing by herself just for him—but then, she loved to sing. She’d never be someone who gathered an audience, but she thought her voice was fair enough.

“All right,” she agreed.

She used her chopping to set a beat and began a ballad familiar to anyone in Eirea, a sweet song about loving their rolling hills and vast forests. Molly couldn’t quite look at him as she sang, but soon enough, she swayed her hips in time and her voice filled the kitchen as they worked.

It didn’t take long for a deep hum to accompany her voice. She looked up in surprise to find that, after two verses, he’d picked up the tune. He added a deep, guttural hum to her song, using his voice as an instrument.

Breathless with pleasure, they soon forgot about dinner and cooking. Molly sang song after song to his accompaniment; sometimes he hummed and others, when he picked up the words, he’d harmonize with her.

It shouldn’t have surprised her that his singing was as beautiful as his speaking voice, rich and syrupy like molasses.

She remembered him saying his eldest sister was a musician and how he’d enjoyed playing with her, but Molly hadn’t realized that meant he sang, as well.

They spent most of the evening trading favorite songs, and he even had her singing in broken faethling, his language, as he taught her some of their favorite ballads. Molly loved how his eyes went bright and his face soft as he sang, the long column of his throat vibrating with his baritone. His pitch was perfect, his harmony a thing of beauty.

To her amazement and utter pleasure, it didn’t take him long to procure a harpsichord.

One morning, she watched it slowly roll up the drive, the gravel beneath moving it along in gentle little waves. Molly couldn’t help but laugh and shake her head at the strangeness—it was to be expected by now.

Once up the front steps, the house took care of moving the instrument. By the time they entered her solar, the house was just moving the harpsichord into place.

With a flourish, Allarion sat at the bench, tossing his cloak over the back. The rich fabric pooled around his feet, a waterfall of glistening black velvet. Those tapered fingers moved seamlessly over the keys, testing the sound.

Molly sat on the bench beside him, returning his grin when he leaned down to see how she liked it.

“Needs a little tuning,” he said as his fingers moved almost too quickly to track. “Do you know this one?”

The music changed to a familiar song, and Molly bounced on her seat. Together, they sang about bonny lasses and forlorn love, filling the house with out-of-tune music and their harmonized duet.

To Molly’s surprise, even Bellarand, after another fortnight of her presence at the manor and seeing that she meant to stay, seemed to be coming around. Not that she necessarily sought or needed the unicorn’s esteem, but it was nice to know she wouldn’t be stabbed in the back whenever she went to tend the garden Allarion established for her.

Molly liked to think of herself as adaptable, sometimes even clever, and she wasn’t above bribery to get her way. She’d started a subtle campaign of flirting with Allarion, mostly to see where the line for him was. How much could she push—for she wanted to know if what he said was true.

As for Bellarand, as a glorified horse with a superiority complex, Molly figured the way to win his—if not affection, then at least approval would be through his stomach.

Most males were similar that way. The ones that ate, at least.

As she tended to the garden, she got in the habit of pulling up a carrot for him. They weren’t ready yet, but the unicorn seemed to take delight in the small roots.

The young ones are the sweetest, he said without a hint of remorse.

Molly swallowed her horror and continued her campaign, making sure to procure additional large carrots when next they went to Mullon.

The large carrots were quickly a favorite. Soon, Molly had herself an enormous household pest.

One that enjoyed scaring the daylights out of her.

With the split door open on top to catch the afternoon breeze, it was easy for Bellarand to stick his head into the kitchen, and he loved to do it suddenly, never giving her warning he was coming.

He bared his teeth in an equine laugh whenever she dropped or spilled something.

This time, though, she merely jumped when he stuck that big black head through the door.

I require more carrots, human.

Molly didn’t bother looking up from where she stood at the stove, stirring that day’s stew. “May I please have another carrot, Molly?”

A snort of derision blew through the kitchen. Dread-mounts do not beg.

“Being polite isn’t begging,” she sing-songed. “It’s having good manners.”

Another great huff, and Molly did her best not to look at the looming unicorn taking up one side of the kitchen. She kept to her business, chopping her vegetables and stirring her stew.

Finally, when Bellarand saw she meant it when she ignored him, he stamped a front hoof on the packed earth outside.

Fine! A carrot, please.

It sounded more insulting than polite, but Molly figured they had to start somewhere. Pulling one from her pile, she approached where his head hung over the open half-door, but she didn’t give it to him immediately.

“Please, who?”

His hot, irritated breath threw her hair back with its velocity. Please, Molly, he grumbled.

Content, Molly handed over the carrot to his grasping horsey lips. And nearly had her fingers chomped off for her trouble.

“Watch it!” she yelped.

Carrot faster next time, then, he chortled, and she swore the unicorn winked at her.

Unsettling. There was no other word for the unicorn.

Molly glared as she returned to her stew, but she didn’t rat out the big pony to Allarion when the fae came trotting down the steps. She wanted to be amicable cohabitants with Bellarand, if nothing more, and Molly had never been one to snitch.

Allarion sat himself on a stool, and he and his mount seemed perfectly happy to watch her cook. Bellarand laughed his braying laugh when she set Allarion the task of stringing green beans, but quickly turned to goading the fae into throwing him pods to crunch on.

“I’d like some of those for my dinner,” she groused as another green bean went sailing into the unicorn’s wide-open mouth .

Allarion bit down on his laughter, schooling his features into something contrite as he did as his azai bid and kept back her green beans.

Coward, bullied Bellarand.

“I heard that,” Molly sang from the stove.

Bellarand had the decency to swing his ears back, abashed.

She’d set him to stringing green beans enough times that Allarion didn’t have to watch his hands as he worked. Instead, he had the much more enjoyable view of his lovely azai standing at the stove. He didn’t know if she realized, but a little smile adorned her plush mouth as she listened to Bellarand gripe.

These past weeks had been some of the happiest of Allarion’s long life. Having a companion like Molly filled his days with joy. The work around the manor wasn’t work when she was there with him, either lending a hand or sewing in an out-of-the-way corner.

She’d warned him that the happy, vivacious barmaid wasn’t her true self, but Allarion had his doubts. Perhaps her smiles weren’t always so wide, but now that he’d seen more of her true smiles, he realized how often in the tavern she had forced the expression. He understood now what to look for—not just the widening of her mouth but how her eyes crinkled at the corners and a dimple appeared in her right cheek.

He was learning, and that gave him hope.

Allarion knew himself to have a fierce acquisitiveness, even for a fae. Collecting the parts of his Molly, discovering all the bits and hidden layers of her, satisfied him in a way nothing else ever had. Learning her, sating his curiosity over what she thought and liked and savored, offered him the very thing he’d longed for all his life—purpose.

The only thing missing was Molly in his bed.

But he had hope there, too. She’d never been totally immune to him, even when she was angriest with him. With his sensitive senses, he’d tasted on the back of his tongue how, every once in a while, her body quickened for his. Over the intervening weeks, he’d come to suspect she was flirting with him.

Her big doe eyes, ensuring her generous breasts pressed or brushed against him when they were close, finding excuses to gently lay her hand on his arm—all of it spoke to growing interest. He dared not acknowledge it too much for fear that his desperation for her might scare her.

The last thing he wanted was her locking herself away again in her bedchamber.

As he learned Molly and she grew into her place here at Scarborough, Allarion knew he just had to keep his wits and his patience about him. Just a little longer, he told himself as he stroked his cock to thoughts of her every morning and every night.

His hunger for her grew with each day, a writhing, boundless thing that gnawed at his ribs. More than once, he hadn’t been able to keep himself from her, creeping into her bedchamber to watch as she slept.

His cock had ached and his hand twitched to stroke it, but he had a few remaining shreds of honor. He waited to do that after he left the sanctity of her room. Still, however much this little longer was, he feared it’d be too much for the desperate thing inside that wanted to devour her.

Polite and gentle as he forced himself to be, Allarion dreaded the day when his patience, that ancient thing that had kept him alive for centuries, finally gave under the enormity of his need for her. It would happen, someday soon, and he could only hope Molly was ready.

When she tossed him happy little looks over her shoulder, as she did then from the stove, his hopes soared almost as quickly as his blood to his cock.

The minx winked at him before saying, “You can add those to the water now.”

Allarion gritted his back teeth, hoping his tunic hid the worst of his bulging trou. Holding the green beans in his hands out in front of him, he crossed to his mate to deposit them in the pot of boiling water.

This cooking business fascinated him—why some foods were cooked and others weren’t offered an endless puzzle. Some foods could be enjoyed either way, and there were so many methods of cooking. His favorite was baking—it filled the kitchen with sweet, sugary smells and his Molly always looked a treat bending over to pull them from the brick oven.

She seemed distracted enough by the added beans that his cock went unnoticed, but now that he was near, Allarion had no desire to leave her side.

She’d laughed before, asking why he liked to hover at her elbow while she moved about the kitchen.

The answer was simple. “To be near you.”

That was his greatest desire of all, even above finally indulging in the pleasure of her body. Despite her misgivings, Molly exuded warmth. She may not see it, but her presence breathed new life into the estate. The house hung on her every word—almost as much as him—and she filled their days with music and song. Even Bellarand had been less cranky of late.

As Molly tended her cooking, Allarion couldn’t help lifting his fingers to twirl around one of her brown curls.

“Your hair has grown,” he said. When they handfasted, her hair had fallen to just past her ears, but now it nearly swept her shoulders, the hair trying to turn for one more curl.

Molly reached back to feel the ends of her hair. “I suppose it has. I hadn’t thought about it much, honestly.”

“If you prefer it short, I could cut it.” He’d trimmed Bellarand’s mane before and he had a hard time seeing Molly as a more exacting client than the unicorn.

She made a considering noise. “I think I’d like to grow it some. The only reason I kept it so short was so it couldn’t be grabbed easily.”

Allarion went perfectly still. Sensing his shift, Molly looked up at him, those brown eyes of hers wide.

It took two tries to force the words from his throat. “Grab you?” Even he heard how his voice had dropped low in his throat.

Her lips thinned with displeasure. “Yes. Drunk men often get braver. And handsy.”

Rage licked up his spine. He’d certainly seen some rowdy behavior for himself in the tavern, and Molly had told him a few anecdotes of her serving there, but he hadn’t imagined her having to make a sacrifice like cutting her hair in order to keep safe. That she hadn’t been safe in that tavern, her home, burned like molten lead in his guts.

Allarion didn’t realize he’d lost himself to his rageful thoughts until one of her small, gentle hands came to rest on his chest.

“It’s all right,” she soothed. “I know how to handle myself.”

He cracked his jaw, trying to loosen the hold his anger had on him. It did nothing but make Molly uncomfortable—he could save it for a more deserving recipient.

Steadying his breathing, he covered her hand with his and cupped the side of her dear face in his other. Sliding his fingers through her hair, he marveled at the softness. What would she look like with a heavy curtain of chestnut curls? He hoped one day to find out.

“You need never make such alterations again. You are safe here, sweetling. Always.”

“I know,” she whispered, her words arrowing through him.

Something thudded painfully in his chest, shaking his ribs. His throat went tight as she looked up at him with eyes that crinkled at the corners. A soft smile touched her lips as she turned her cheek into his hand to nuzzle his palm.

He could hardly believe his eyes, watching her little show of affection. For him.

His mind ceased to work for several moments.

Allarion’s gaze fell to how her throat elongated when she turned her head. A tendon in her neck pressed against her skin, and he could just see the faint beat of her pulse there.

His fangs ached.

Staring at her throat, Allarion had the distinct desire to bite her. To draw her blood, her very essence into himself. She would be his. In the most visceral, primeval way.

Saliva pooled on his tongue to taste her.

Noises dulled, his vision narrowed. The pulse at her throat matched the thud in his chest, a quake that shook him in his boots.

Let me, he wanted to beg her, let me taste you.

“Allarion?”

The sound of her voice—his name—he blinked, trying to put her face into focus.

Molly still looked up at him, but concern had wrinkled her brow. “Your eyes…”

He turned his face away, needing to take a steadying breath. On looking around the kitchen, he realized all the spoons and pots and herb fronds had lifted in the air from his wayward magic.

He’d need to siphon some off soon, even though it was far sooner than his usual interval. His indomitable desire for his azai had stirred more than just his lust inside him, it seemed.

Goddesses, what had he been thinking? Drink her blood…

There were old rites, more ancient than the fae in these lands, that spoke of azai biting each other. There were even still fae women who enjoyed scoring their partners with their fangs, and more than a few fae men wore their scars like a badge of pride.

He remembered Maxim had spoken of blood before, Aine’s blood but was vague, even with Allarion. He’d wondered if Aine’s blood was the reason for Maxim’s transformation.

Gone was the spiderweb of black veins beneath his skin. Instead, Maxim bled red. His sclera had gone white, his tongue pink. Allarion thought it had to do with Aine being human. That Maxim spoke of her blood metaphorically, like the heart or spirit.

What if…what if…

He didn’t know if he dared touch the thought too firmly.

Allarion tried to soften his features and hide his whirring thoughts.

“Forgive me, sweetling. I lost my way in my thoughts.”

Molly blinked up at him, her expression skeptical, but let him make his retreat. “All right. I’d tell you to sit down and eat something, but you don’t do that.”

“No,” he said numbly, although he did take her advice to sit.

Bellarand was less gentle. What’s wrong with you?

Allarion stared at his friend, feeling dazed. I’m not sure.