"These are too expensive," she insisted, her voice strained. "I can't possibly accept all this. What would people think? What would the staff think?"
"I don't particularly care what anyone thinks," I replied, selecting the complete set with a gesture. "The only opinion that matters is mine. And yours, though you seem determined to deny yourself everything pleasurable."
Between shops, we paused on a quieter side street. Snow gathered on Simone's new velvet-clad shoulders, melting from her body heat to leave glistening droplets like tiny diamonds. She stood looking utterly shaken by the afternoon's events, her composure finally cracking under the weight of unexpected generosity.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, voice small against the backdrop of falling snow. "If this is about... what happened between us... you don't need to buy me things. I'm not expecting—"
"If I'm expected to punish you," I interrupted, reaching out to brush a snowflake from her cheek with one claw, "I'm also expected to treat you. Balance."
Her lips parted slightly, eyes wide as she processed the implication. Balance. Punishment and pleasure. Taking and giving. A relationship of reciprocity rather than mere power exchange.
"I don't understand," she whispered, though her quickened pulse suggested otherwise.
"You will," I assured her, offering my arm once more. "By the time I'm finished, you'll understand exactly what you deserve. What I intend to give you." I gestured toward our final destination, a small café that glowed with warm light against the darkening afternoon. "But first, tea. You've endured enough shopping for one day."
She placed her hand on my arm with visible uncertainty, and a reluctant flicker of pleasure that she couldn't quite suppress.
Snow dusted Simone's shoulders as I guided her to the small bistro tucked between a fortune teller's shop and an apothecary that specialized in emotional ailments. Wisps of steam rose from heat lamps that lined the covered patio, making the falling snowflakes vanish before they could accumulate on our table. She settled into her chair with the careful movements of someone still uncertain of her place. Watching her fidget with the hem of her new dress, avoiding my gaze, I felt that curious pull again, the unfamiliar urge to both devour and protect.
"The spiced apple cider here is unlike anything in the human world," I told her, signaling a waiter. The creature nodded without approaching, already knowing my preferences.
Simone's eyes darted around the patio, taking in the strings of lights that hovered without support, miniature stars captured in glass orbs that pulsed in time with the soft music that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Through the frosted windows, other patrons dined in golden warmth.
"It's beautiful," she admitted, her voice soft. The words were sincere, but her posture remained tense, shoulders drawn inward. Two steaming mugs appeared before us, alongside a bowl of stew. I dipped the spoon into the rich broth, gathering a piece of meat and root vegetables before extending it across the table toward her lips.
"Eat," I commanded quietly.
Her eyes widened, surprise flickering across her face before she leaned forward and accepted the offering. The intimacy of the gesture, feeding her from my spoon, watching her lips close around it, the small sound of pleasure she couldn't quite suppress, sent heat coursing through me. I had fed lovers before, of course, but this felt different. Less about sensuality and more about care. About proving she was worthy of attention.
"You don't have to feed me," she murmured after swallowing. "I'm perfectly capable—"
"I know what you're capable of," I interrupted, dipping the spoon again.
She accepted the second bite with less hesitation, though her fingers remained in constant motion, tracing the rim of her mug, adjusting her napkin, small nervous gestures that betrayed her discomfort with being the recipient of attention rather than its provider. We continued this way for several minutes, me offering bites of the stew, her accepting them with gradually decreasing resistance. The snow fell thicker around our sheltered patio, muffling the sounds of the magical district beyond. In the stillness, I could hear her heartbeat, the slight catch in her breath when my claws accidentally brushed against her fingers, the soft sounds of appreciation she made at particularly flavorful bites.
"Why am I on the naughty list?" The question burst from her without warning, as if she'd been holding it back since we'd met.
I set down the spoon, studying her face. Her eyes met mine directly for the first time since we'd sat down.
"Because you neglect yourself," I answered, my voice low but firm. No point in softening truth she needed to hear. "You smile through pain and refuse to ask for help. Because you act like being joyful takes away the emptiness."
She flinched slightly, her gaze dropping to the mug clutched between her hands. The steam rising from the spiced cider cast ghostly patterns across her face, highlighting the subtle shift in her expression, shock, followed by recognition, followed by something more complex and wounded.
"That's not being naughty," she finally whispered. "That's just... surviving."
"Survival and self-destruction aren't the same thing," I countered. "You give and give until there's nothing left, then push yourself to give more. You treat yourself with less care than you show the rudest customer. You've built an entire identity around being needed because you're afraid of what's left when you're alone."
She went utterly still, her fingers frozen mid-fidget on the handle of her mug. For a moment, I wondered if I'd pushed too far, if my assessment, accurate as it was, had shattered something fragile within her. Then a single tear escaped, tracking down her cheek before she quickly brushed it away.
"Does grief put you on the naughty list, too?" The question emerged so softly I might have missed it if not for my supernatural hearing.
"Yes," I answered honestly. "When you let it rot inside you. When you let it become who you are."
She didn't elaborate further on what loss had hollowed her out. She didn't need to. I recognized the weight of it in her eyes, in the careful way she held herself, as if afraid that relaxing even slightly might cause her to collapse completely.
Simone nodded once, a small, tight movement. Her eyes had grown glassy, but no more tears fell. Instead, she lifted her mug and took a long sip of cider, using the motion to compose herself. Snow continued to fall beyond our sheltered space, the world beyond growing quieter as evening approached. Through the frosted windows, I could see the bistro patrons shifting,conversations continuing, lives unfolding in parallel to our moment of suspended time.
I picked up the spoon again, gathering another bite of the still-steaming stew. When I extended it toward her, her eyes met mine with new awareness, as if seeing me clearly for the first time. She accepted the offering without hesitation now, something having shifted between us with the exchange of hard truths.
