It only takes me a few days to run out of the initial supply of roving that Morwen gave me, and rather than pester her incessantly—and risk another discussion about what hobbies might be more appropriate for me—I go right to the source.
Visri’s the first one to get a scarf from me, knitted while I listened to my fireplace crackling and watched the snowfall outside. He’s not sure what to do with the gift, trying to deny it at first, then trying to tell me I should give it to someone else.
“You’re the one who supplied me with more wool and saved me the trouble of processing it,” I insist, leaning up to wrap the scarf around his neck. “It’s the least I can do.”
Within another week, half the grooms in the stables and the entire rotation of my personal guard have been outfitted similarly, and already the place feels a little less dreadful without the constant chorus of chattering teeth. There have been somesuggestions that I’m going to turn the guards soft, but I maintain that it’s better soft than frozen solid. And so my pile of scarves, hats, and gloves never stops growing.
The bitter, unrelenting cold is honestly the least pleasant part of being in the demon realm. When I first signed my contract with the Dealmaker, I didn’t know what kind of horrors and nightmares to expect from this world. I never expected that I wouldn’t mind it so much. That, despite being the only human around, I’d be treated with more kindness and acceptance than I ever found at home. There’s even a group of maids and cooks who have started joining me some nights to do their mending and darning, sharing stories among ourselves sometimes, but sitting in companionable silence others.
All in all, things could be a lot worse.
Do I still feel a prickle of guilt fighting to form each night when I abscond to my chambers quiet as a mouse so Xandril won’t know I’m just across the hall? Yes, of course. But I know Ishouldn’t. He’s the one who turned me away; why should I try to bridge the gulf between us when I wanted nothing to do with our marriage in the first place?
It’s been nearly two weeks since I last saw him when my betrothed finally crosses my path again. I hear his footsteps approaching while I sit at the spinning wheel, half holding my breath and hoping that he’ll keep moving. I don’t look his way when he stops in the doorway, but there’s no mistaking his nearness now, the warmth that radiates from him, the way his bulky frame instantly makes any room he’s in feel too small.
After an extended moment, he clears his throat, the floor creaking as he takes a step into the room.
“I’ve been told you’re the one responsible for the new garments I’ve seen the staff wearing,” he says, a statement, not a question even though he seems to be waiting for a response.
“I am. I have one for you, too, if you’d like,” I say, eyes still on the wheel.
He closes in to where I can’t avoid seeing him, he’s too big and takes up too much of my periphery.
Shaky breaths make my hands tremble just enough to start making mistakes.
“Why are you doing this?” Xandril asks, no notes of anger or accusation in his deep voice, only curiosity. Confusion. “It’s not your place—”
“Save your objections, I’ve heard them all from Morwen. I’ve found a way to be of use while I’m here and I won’t have it taken from me.” It’s getting easier for me to make declarative statements like that instead of hedging what I say with conciliations and apologies. Even Xandril seems surprised by me standing up to him so forcefully.
He stands in shocked silence, just watching me, but I’ve stopped the wheel, too unsteady to continue right now. After a moment, the air between us feels warmer, heavier, and I can’t stop myself from rushing to fill the silence.
“It’s not as if I’ve been given any alternative way to pass my time. I’m not sure what you think I should be doing with myself, but I can’t donothing. I was raised with the belief that idle hands are the devil’s plaything—”
The words have left my mouth before I can stop them. Xandril may not be ‘the devil,’ but the way his glowing ember eyes settle on my hands tell me he’s thinking the same thing I am: demon’s close enough. And now my hands arereallytrembling. I pull them back from the spinning wheel, twisting them together in my lap, but it’s too late.
He’s taking another step forward, his heat intense enough to bring a flush to my chest.
I turn away, trying to hide my hands in a basket of wool. I have no real reason to pick through it right now, but it’s an excuse to face the other way and try to regain some control of my senses. This effect that he has on me is beginning to feel familiar; I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse.
“Is it a hobby you enjoy?” he asks, his voice softer and gentler than I realized it could be.
“There’s satisfaction to be found in each stage of the process,” I say, falling back into reciting facts. “Taking something tangled and insubstantial and spinning and knitting it into something solid, especially.” I turn back to my spinning, starting the wheel slowly.
“That is not the same as enjoying the process itself,” he notes.
A flush of embarrassment warms my face even as his heat cools to a more bearable level.
“Well then, what hobbies doyouenjoy? Training doesn’t count as a hobby,” I add. Let’s see how much he has to say when his questions are turned on him. If nothing else, pointing out his hypocrisy may be enough to make him back down.
Xandril looks around the room, glancing toward the door before finally dragging a wooden crate closer to me, using it as a seat. The moment he sits he seems…less impossible. More human, maybe. The weariness in his slumped posture is relatable, if not fully understandable.
“Truthfully,” he begins with a half-hearted sigh, “I have had little time for personal pursuits even before I started earning ranks in the Wardens.” The confession surprises me. The last thing I expected from this spike-covered brute of a demon wasopening up. “My hands are rarely idle now,” he adds, the raspy depth in his voice sending a fresh wave of heat through me while we both look at said hands.
Like the rest of him, they’re enormous, defined in a way that only comes from working with your hands and workinghard. What do they feel like? Are his callouses as rough and plentiful as mine? Is his touch as warm as the rest of him?
Shifting in my seat, I press my thighs together, forcing myself to look away from his hands. Anywhere else. It’s too late to stop the flush from creeping up the back of my neck, making my whole scalp tingle.
Please let him not notice.
