Orla appears at my left shoulder in the mirror. The dress, cream fabric with a forest green trim, is on the looser side, allowing me to move about freely. My dark hair is unbound, falling in gentle waves over my shoulders. My eyes are dark, knowing, changed.
Boreas and I spent hours in the City of Gods, wandering late into the evening until the shops closed. The day passed too quickly for my liking. After browsing the bookstore, we attended the ballet, then gorged on sweet pastries while perusing the vast collection of the university library. And yet, I’m not tired, not even a little bit.
“Wish me luck.”
“I would,” says Orla with a secret smile, “but you don’t need it.”
Oh, yes I do.
Breathe.
My palms prickle with sweat as I make my way downstairs to the dining room. To my surprise, Boreas has already arrived, his tunic unbuttoned near the neck, black hair untethered and curling around his face. He stands upon my entrance, and I move toward my usual seat across the table before noting the lack of place setting. I turn to him in confusion, a faint, panicky feeling rolling down the length of my spine.
Wordlessly, he gestures to the chair at his immediate right. My place setting has moved.
I only hesitate for half a heartbeat before taking my seat.
“So,” I say, taking a sip of water. “What’s on the menu tonight?”
He lifts a hand, and the staff place six covered dishes onto the table. The silver domes bleed candlelight across their curved, reflective surfaces.
“In the City of Gods,” Boreas begins, “a meal is a communal affair. The divine love nothing more than to connect with their more gluttonous natures.” He uncovers the smallest dish. A round red fruit rests in the center of the silver plate.
“A meal’s purpose is to incite the senses,” he goes on. “A tactile pursuit. Thus, we feed the person to our immediate right.”
I blink dumbly, certain I misheard him. “Feed?”
His eyes are very dark. The icy rings surrounding his pupils are so thin they appear nonexistent.
My lungs expand until the pinch near my ribs forces me to exhale. It is a dance, I suppose. Boreas offers me his hand, and I must decide whether to accept or deny him. I’m not a coward. I may be out of my depth, but I’m not the only one taking a risk tonight. It’s a strange, if twisted, comfort.
“Show me,” I demand.
He moves without haste. He may be a sculptor for all the care and devotion he gives this task, peeling the fruit into sections, tearing free the rind. The knot in my stomach constricts.
When he is done, he leans over the arm of his chair, his face inches from mine. My nostrils flare. His scent is darker on this night, rich with intensity.
“You need to open your mouth,” he murmurs.
Right. That would be helpful.
My lips part, and the fruit slides inside, sweet with musk. Boreas pulls back, though remains within my personal space, watching as I chew and swallow. A drop of juice seeps from the corner of my mouth. He eyes its winding path down my chin, gaze keen, jaw taut. I swipe it away with the back of my hand.
“Now you.” A low, deep rasp.
My fingers twitch against my thighs, and my gaze falls to his mouth. I’ve always considered it the softest part of him.
“Scared?” he croons, the points of his canines pronounced.
My eyes dart to his, narrowing. “Prick.”
He chuckles. And I must be dreaming, because the sound is so rarely heard I scarcely recognize it.
I can do this. Iwilldo this.
Readying myself, I select a section of the fruit and lean toward him. His fingers anchor my wrist in the process, the strength in his grip too great to break. Heat pools between my legs as our eyes lock, my lips parting as, slowly, he draws the fruit, and my fingers, into his mouth.
My mind blanks. The hot, wet suction of his mouth latches onto my fingers, and he takes a shallow pull, his throat working to ingest the fruit juice.I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe—
