Maybe she’d sleep better in there.
For goodness’ sake, she’s not really considering inviting herself into his bed, is she?
That would definitely send the wrong message.
With a frustrated huff, she rolls over and tries to shove all thoughts of the elf next door and his maybe-bare chest to a far corner of her mind.
Arisannaisn’tsleeping.Thatmuch is obvious from her dramatic groans and the way she keeps tossing and turning in her bed.
Cerian rubs his gritty eyes. After his night in the chair, his body longs for sleep, but every little sound drifting through the cracks around the door reminds him of her. Is she hot? Cold? Uncomfortable in an elven bed of moss?
What if she fears the dark? He left a lamp for her, but what if it burned out? Or what if the fire he lit before saying goodnight died down?
She groans again, and Cerian sighs. How is he supposed to sleep with her making so much noise next door? She must not realize he can hear her.
Should he check on her? Invite her to join him in here?
Whistling wind, he can’t do that. She’d probably think he wants to...bond with her.
His palms tingle at the thought. That won’t be happening any time soon. He’d light the entire bed on fire.
Not that he’s considering it. Not yet, anyway. Not even if her hair shines like fire in the sun and that shimmeron gown drapes across her in the most enchanting way. Not even if she has the most perfect legs.
What in the Wildthorne Woods is wrong with him?
This time, he groans as he shakes his burning hands to quell the heat. He’s going to light something on fire right now if he doesn’t get a hold of himself.
Perhaps he should discuss this sudden loss of control of his fire magic with Father. Does Father struggle with his own fire magic?
What a horrifying thought. Not that Cerian hasn’t witnessed his parents kissing a thousand times.
That doesn’t mean he wants to think about it.
And he definitely doesn’t want to talk about it.
He lies in his bed, staring at the ceiling, until the noise next door quiets. Then his own eyelids droop, and he pushes thoughts of his human princess aside as he succumbs to sleep.
Afterwhatfeelslikeminutes, Cerian’s bed rumbles beneath him, and the most annoying clacking fills his ears. Something heavy lies across his lap, and he rubs his eyes, trying to orient himself.
An empty velvet bench faces him, and it all rushes back.
The heartlanding. Of course.
He glances down and freezes.
Arisanna. In her scandalous dress. She’s curled up on the bench beside him with her head in his lap.
His palms grow warm just looking at her.
Clearly, she fell asleep in the real world. And so did he.
Her eyes flash open, and her swift intake of breath as she stares up at him does cruel things to his fire magic.
“Well,” she says. “This is unexpected.”
To his surprise, she doesn’t bolt from his lap, though it may have been better if she had with the way a burning heat itches at his hands, begging for release.
“What’s wrong?” she asks. “You look...stiff. I’m guessing you don’t want me here.”
