In the end, despite his revulsion at his lack of control, he couldn’t force his claws to unlock their grip.
The shirt stayed, unseen but quietly obsessed over, until the memory of her scent weakened him enough to dig it out again. Even months later, the faint trace of her lingered in its fibers. It was made all the more potent, he grimly discovered, by the addition of his own. When their scents combined, it didn’t just smell like the best sex of his life. It smelled like home.
He put in another order the next day.
Taevas wasn’t entirely sure how it happened, except that it must have been in increments and through constant renegotiation with himself. It became something of an internal hostage negotiation — one of constant compromise with an ever-increasingly demanding aggressor.
He put rules on his obsession, hoping to manage it, but they were never enough.
Taevas couldn’t seek her out, though something in him frothed with the need. It was precisely that need which solidified his resolve.
Control, renegotiation, control.
If he wanted to indulge his whims, he could only do so with the stipulation that he could never, ever hunt her down. Rules were control of the seemingly uncontrollable. It put him back on top of a beast that threatened to eat him whole.
One order turned into two, then two dozen. He renegotiated with himself again and again, making allowances, fighting for control over himself and the growing monster of his need.
No one was allowed to touch the garments except the artisan, he demanded. Not even the owner of the atelier. That concession to the needy beast came with the rule that Taevas couldn’t orderanything that might hint at his obsession, let alone his desire, and he couldn’t, under any circumstance, communicate directly with the artisan herself.
It was a series of checks and balances, the rules that he needlessly and painfully enforced on himself. And it was precisely those rigid guidelines that had the exact opposite result of their intended purpose. Rather than keep a lid on the strange obsession he had with her, it dripped fuel on the fire, one syrupy droplet at a time.
He saved every notecard and flower she sent with the orders. One day it became more than just sexual desire, but the driving need to place her scent everywhere — in his nest, his living room, his office, his jet.Another allowance. Another negotiation.
He carried something of hers always, or else he couldn’t focus properly. Over time, he began to notice a hum in the clothing itself, as if he became a flesh and blood lightning rod for her unique tenor of magic. He had no magic himself, so he couldn’t properly say whether it was his growing sensitivity to it or a real change, but Taevas could’ve sworn that she put more and more of herself into the stitches over the years.
Every new garment he received practically glowed with it. When he delicately shrugged his arms and wings into a new shirt, he could feel the warmth of her magic as it settled into his very pores. He never felt as safe as he did when he wore something she’d touched. He never felt as close to another being as when her magic curled around him with a sensual, loving caress. To go without it now was unthinkable.
Another. Another. Another.
It didn’t happen all at once. In fact, it was slow enough that he barely noticed the extent to which he’d integrated her into his life until she was already everywhere.
And he didn’t even know her name.
For seven years, he’d indulged himself. For seven years, he’d rigidly upheld his rules, his distance, for fear of what would become of him if he gave in.
Until the day Theodore Solbourne, his unwilling elvish protege, made headlines all over the world with his shocking elopement. Taevas had nearly spat out his coffee when the headline crossed his morning briefing.
“Sovereign and Healer? The Match of the Century!”
And there the elf was, pictured with his gloved hand on the nape of a young witch’s neck. They only had eyes for each other as they climbed into the back of a town car. Their marriage sigils were fresh, and the symbol of a union that shattered generations of destructive elvish dogma. Elves hadn’t been free to take outsiders as mates in a thousand years, but little Teddy had just gone and done the damn thing.
Taevas had been proud. He’d bugged the boy to throw that shit out from the moment he came to power. It took some serious balls to do it the way little Teddy had, but Taevas couldn’t fault him for style — or taste. Margot Goode was lovely, if one liked breakable-looking, somewhat-spooky witches.
But that pride faded quicker than Taevas would’ve liked. He was left staring at the happy, improbable couple. Something in his chest went missing. Maybe it had never been there, but its absence had been a comfortable habit. Staring at their smitten faces, he felt it keenly for the first time in nearly a century.
Loneliness,he’d realized, thumbing the crimson stitching of his shirt’s cuff. His artisan had outdone herself with a new geometric design, and he loved tracing each little loop of thread.
He counted the stitches and thought of her as he looked at Teddy’s boyish grin. That hollow feeling grew and grew until it swallowed up the last pitiful reserves of his decency.
It was perhaps a cruel but justified turn when the atelier’s associate refused to give him her name.“It’s a matter of privacy, sir,”they’d explained, oozing unctuousness.“But I’d be happy to pass a message along.”
What could he say? Taevas had hung up, irritated with himself and the associate and even his artisan, hismetsalill.
The Isand’s precious, elusivewildflower.
He tried again, a few weeks later when the sting of his weakness had faded, but received the same answer. The next attempt, his pride gave way and he did what they suggested. Taevas sent along a message, asking if the artisan would be willing to speak to him personally.
A day later he’d gotten a response — from the owner of the atelier himself.“I’m so sorry, Isand, but she’s a very private person. While she appreciates your patronage immensely, she prefers to communicate via the Atelier. I’m sure you understand.”
