If I had ingredients and a grimoire on hand, I probably could work a spell for myself. But my natural magic—the kind that comes to me with only a slight amount of effort—is the ability to soothe those around me. I can sense when fear and worry spike, a person’s aura filling with sickly orange.
If I want, I can twine my magic through their anxieties, dulling the sharp edges until they are calm again.
More than once, I’ve wanted to use the power on Ophelia. She always seems to have a tinge of orange around her.
But the woman has had magic forced on her before. I won’t be another person who spells her without permission.
But if I explain what I can do and she agrees to let me help … that is a different story.
“Are you ready?” Ophelia appears before me, seemingly out of nowhere since I was so lost in thought. Her ability to move stealthily will work in her favor during the Gauntlet.
I open my mouth to respond, but then I take her in, and I struggle for words. The sight of her undoes me.
The firebird doesn’t even have on a skimpy bikini, though that would also likely short-circuit my brain. Ophelia’s current outfit is entirely modest. A fluffy white robe, provided by the spa, engulfs her.
And she looks entirely too adorable, bundled up in the garment.
I can’t help thinking this is how Ophelia would look while wrapped up in a blanket. Snuggled on a couch.
I need to buy a couch for my place. And a fluffy blanket.
“You look very huggable,” I blurt.
Ophelia’s eyebrows pop up.
Then, a smile curves her luscious lips, and I don’t regret the blundering words.
“You said I could hug you anytime. Anywhere. For as long as I want?” Her voice ticks up on the last note in a question.
“Correct,” I croak, throat gone dry with hope.
“Just checking.”
Then, the temptress steps into my chest and wraps her arms around me. I hold her back, and she’s as soft as I imagined.
Even as I revel in the sensation, a part of me feels bad that I haven’t shared how much these embraces mean to me. Ophelia probably thinks I’m some sort of selfless being, offering her comfort. She might even have an idea that I’m attracted to her and that I derive pleasure from holding her because of that fact.
But there’s more. As I press my arms into the softness of her robe and feel the steady heat of her body beneath, I give in to the sudden urge to share.
“I never got hugs, growing up.”
Ophelia flinches. Then, she holds me tighter. “Not from your siblings?”
I let my fingers stroke the silky tresses of her cinnamon-scented hair that spills down her back. “No. I think it has to do with their magic. Getting close to people can be overwhelming for them.”
“Your parents?” Her question is hesitant.
“My parents …” I try to sound nonchalant. Aloof. But bitterness creeps in. “They weren’t the loving kind.”
Fingertips dig into the tense muscles of my back, and I realize Ophelia is gripping me.
The possession is intoxicating.
“My father wasn’t the loving kind either.” The firebird reveals a piece of her past. A hint to the life she had before her captivity.
I take the knowledge for what it is. A gift and an honor.
Ophelia doesn’t let go, only shifts her head so her chin rests on my chest, gazing straight up so I can meet her eyes.
