One cure for a hangover
Fi slept like the dead and woke little better.
Her first awareness upon waking was her mouth, the inside of which seemed to have been replaced by some manner of juniper-laced sandpaper. Fortunately, she didn’t have to dwell on that sensation long, distracted by the throb in her head. She groaned a hoarse, crackling sound. At least she was somewhere soft. Warm. Dark. Cracking open crusted eyes, she found herself safe in her bed. Dim light slipped through curtained windows.
As was becoming a morning habit, she looked up.
Antal stretched along a rafter, tail dangling a lazy sway.
“Good morning, Fionamara,” he greeted drowsily. “How did you sleep?”
Fi groaned liked a depressed walrus.
He chuckled. “As expected, then.”
In a snarl of bedsheets and bad decisions, Fi scrunched her eyes shut and massaged her temples. Her headache laughed at the feeble attempt with a throb like an ice pick through her brain. The previous night, source of her agony, came back in fragmented pieces, a memory of too many shots and Antal carrying her home. She wiggled bare toes, her boots stowed by the door, but otherwise she wore the same clothes. A relief.
Because Fi vaguely remembered trying to kiss him. He’d stopped her.
Ataplanded on her floorboards. Next, a clink of glass in her kitchen. Through slitted eyes, she watched the shadow glide toward her, a smolder of crimson irises in the dim room.
Antal paused an arm’s length from her bed. Her rafters, her tub, her sofa, he’d made use of without qualm, but here was one place he’d avoided. A boundary never breached.
He offered a glass of water. Fi grabbed it and downed the liquid in too few gulps, leaving her mouth feeling more mud than sandpaper. She groaned again.
“How can I help?” Antal spoke low, gentle to her headache. Fi still winced.
“I don’t suppose you have some magical daeyari cure for hangovers?”
“A cure, no. But perhaps some relief?”
“Please.” She’d take anything.
He came closer, another line bent, a shift in her mattress as he sat upon the edge. Fi tensed, wary but curious as he gestured for her to lay back down. Tenser still as he cupped a hand beneath her head, tender claws sliding through rainbow curls.
“Don’t mess up my hair,” Fi grumbled. “I’m sure it looks awful already.”
“It’s always gorgeous.” His voice roughened. “And I prefer it messy.”
What an unnecessary, uncalled for, delicious thing to say. Fi’s huff of protest cut short when he touched her temple. His cool fingers made her sigh.
Then, a bloom of energy. The current flowed into her like a cleansing flush, cold water trickling through snow, a similar prickle to the mind-altering magic he’d worked before. Yetgentler. This version left her thoughts unmuddied, relaxing the swell of her throbbing head, a wave of relief that had Fi leaning into him. This creature of shadow and death whose touch could soften like silk. Immediately, her headache receded.
“I’m sorry about last night.” She lay on her back as he leaned over her, lulled by his touch, chewing her lip. “I didn’t realize talking about your friend would be so hard. I shouldn’t have pushed.”
“You have an uncanny ability, making me speak of things I wouldn’t normally.” He spoke softly, not accusing, more mulling the words. “There’s no need to apologize. I haven’t spoken of him in a long time… Too long, perhaps.”
Antal moved his fingers through her hair, massaging the roots. The soft scrape of claws against her scalp produced a tingling, mesmerizing sensation that shuddered down her spine. Fi’s exhale verged perilously close to a moan.
Smoldering looks and lustful dalliances were one thing. No one had touched Fi like this in… too long. Not since Astrid. Her old defense mechanism bristled, the urge to raise her guard lest weakness damn her.
A glimpse of Antal’s contented grin kept her still.
A deeper warmth bloomed low in her belly, remembering the heat of his mouth on her temple the night before. To Fi’s equal dismay and outrage, a full night’s sleep hadn’t diminished her desire to taste him again.
Here they were now on her bed, close as lovers, his ice and ozone scent heady on the air.
Still too few buttons fastened at his collar. How easy it would be, to reach out and run her fingers across his collarbone, down the hard plane of his chest…
