“I’ve heard that excuse before.”
He rolls his eyes, smirking like a fox. His attention snags on my necklace, usually hidden under my clothes throughout the day. “I’ve been meaning to return something to you.”
He draws up the World, then Death, and all at once my folded clothes from the Selection reappear between us, the figurine of the little broken king on top of them. “I’ll admit it wasn’t the kind of toy I was hoping to find hidden in your belongings—”
“Give it.” I hold my hand out and he offers it over, treating it as if it’s made of finest glass, shockingly gentle, eyeing me uncertainly. I covet it a moment, holding it tenderly before placing it on my bedside table. He hasn’t looked away and I say quietly, “It belonged to my brother.”
“I see.”
“How’d you get it back?” It’s an easier question to ask than why.
“It required paying off a guard, and making a rather large offering to appease Azazel but … since they decided to delay the changeling burnings for Hollow Fest I figured it was worth checking twice.”
My guard drops as I try to figure out a way to thank him without getting emotional, but I come up short.
His jaw clenches in the silence, but then he fills it again, leading us back as if commanding our verbal dance, light and airy and ignoring the generous kindness he just showed as if it were nothing. “Gods, I hope you don’t snore. I think I’d rather you just knife me in my sleep.”
“That’s not off the table.” I scoff in his direction, relief coursing out of me as his humor relaxes my body, as if I’ve slunk into a warm bath. His wings are tucked tight around him, and for a moment a feather caresses my arm, my breasts peaking at the soft touch. I find myself not moving, hoping it trails my skin again. “I’m more worried about whatever birdlike diseases you carry.”
“Says the thief of sandwiches. Perhaps I should nail down my wallet and tarot cards, too.”
“Priss.”
“Trash goblin.”
I roll my eyes, smiling, and my attention lands on those horns, nearly scraping the headboard as he slides off his shirt, the pants, too, though he keeps the sheet tucked around his waist. What have I gotten myself into? My gaze flicks dismissively over him as I desperately cling to the pretense that there’s nothing impressive in the cut of those muscles, the bold ink on his skin, or the addictive scent of him. Those twin serpents that peeked over his collar are wrapped in dark and light around an image of our world on his sternum, but there’s so many tattoos, some bleeding into the next, that I don’t know if there’s enough time to really drink them all in.
The only coherent thought I have is to elevate the tension.
Snark suddenly the essence of my being, I say flatly, “Oh no … your clothes disappeared.”
He laughs so hard the bed shakes, the sound riling, and some traitorous part of me wants to make him crack up like that for as long as I can. But his eyes darken with need, and if he’s acting, then damn him because the growing pressure between my legs isn’t.
He says silkily, “I need your scent on my skin. That wasn’t happening fully dressed. You’re welcome to take off more, too, if you desire.” He settles back as I roll my eyes.
Out of curiosity I lift the sheets, peeking beneath, and his eyebrows jump. “Looking for something, love?”
“Just making sure I won’t be kicked by some manicured hooves tonight.”
He’s wearing some short-like underwear, tight enough to draw everything into formfitting, bulging outlines. His legs are muscled, traced with tattoos like the rest of him. I force my gaze to flick away too fast to take in any more details.
“Well, I was right that they’re manicured.”
“Better than whatever troll toes you call those things.” He laughs as I shove him with my hand, dropping the sheet, and he grins like a wildcat. “You sure you weren’t checking to see if someotherpart of me was like an animal?”
“How close would I have to get to tell?” I fire back, and his mouth drops a bit, but he scoffs out a laugh. He’s not threatened by a good jab, and from the violet in those eyes I think he welcomes it. But to be fair, from what I glimpsed, there’s nothing for him to be self-conscious about. I run a hand along those exquisite wings, mostly to push the one off my half of the bed, and he shudders, eyes closing. Draven quickly rolls onto his stomach, his shoulder bumping against mine as his arms curl around a pillow, wings bunched on his back to avoid further touching. There’s a flush to his cheeks from that gentle stroke.
“As happy as I am to let you explore your monstrous appetites and find out, I’m not here for a roast, but to create some very believable heat.” His gaze caresses my exposed collarbone, flashing to my neck before traveling too far down. “That is going to require that we lay skin to skin.”
“I’d rather not be gouged in the eye.” Between those horns and the clawed ends of his wings, there’s ample opportunity for a maiming just by lying beside him.
He smirks, summoning the Moon, and he alters his appearance once more, no horns, no wings. “What?” His gaze seems to look right through me, and something sparks in my chest.
“It’s just … I wish I could change form like that.” My fingers twist a silken strand of hair, yet it does not hold a curl.
“You can, with practice.” His head tilts. “But what would you change? You’re already …” I suddenly can’t look away from him as he struggles to end the sentence but only lands on “normal.”
“Romantic. I’m being swept off my feet.”
