“I’ll show you.” I drag a bag of clay from behind the potter’s wheel and tear it open.
“What are you doing?”
I’m trying to make you want to stay with me longer.
I grab a handful of clay and work it between my fingers, moulding it into a conical shape. It takes a long time for clay to warm in my cold grip. “I’m going to show you how to throw a pot.”
Winnie frowns. “If we throw these pots, we’ll end up with a pile of shards to clean up.”
Reginald will attest to that.
“I think it would be better if?—”
“Throwing a pot means to make one. Come.” I beckon her with a clay-caked finger.
Winnie takes a step towards me. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. We’re supposed to be cleaning.”
“Isn’t your intention that you allow yourself to be happy? Would it make you happy if I showed you how I made these pots?”
Her lip wobbles. “I’m hopeless at art. I don’t like the mess of it.”
“There’s no such thing as being hopeless at art. Art is whatever you choose to create.”
“I don’t want to get my hands dirty.”
“Sit.”
I allow the weight of centuries to drip into my voice, but Winnie is impervious. She folds her arms. “Lord Valerian, we’re supposed to be cleaning up the mess, not making more.”
“If you let me show you how to make a pot, I promise that we will return to organising.”
“I don’t believe you for a second.”
I pat the seat at the potter’s wheel. A hundred emotions play across Winnie’s face, but she settles into a look of grim determination. She stalks across to me and swings her leg over, straddling the wheel, her skirt bunching up around her thighs in a way that makes my throat close up and my trousers grow tight.
I fill a bowl from the pitcher of water Reginald left for her and place it beside the wheel. “Reach into the bag and pull out a handful of clay.”
Winnie makes an adorable scrunched-up face as she breaks off a chunk of clay, and I show her how to work it intoa cone shape. “I don’t understand what’s fun about squishing wet, slimydirtbetween your fingers.”
“Place it into the centre of the bat – that’s the piece that turns – with the tip of the cone facing down. Now, wet your hands and get your clay a little damp. Can you feel the pedal by your foot? Give that a pump.”
Winnie squeals as the wheel begins to spin. I explain how she needs to press her wrists together, opening her fingers to push on the clay as she pumps the wheel. On her first attempt, she doesn’t pump fast enough and pushes her clay off the edge of the bat. On her second attempt, she pumpstoofast and splatters wet clay across her face.
“Alaric, this is ridiculous, I can’t do it!”
“Nonsense. You need to get the feel for it. More forward in your seat.”
A pleasant fission shoots through my body as she obeys my command, shuffling forward and placing both feet flat on the ground. I slide in behind her, my breath catching as my body presses against hers, chest to her back, my legs framing hers.
What am I doing?
I’m torturing myself with the heat of her touch and the closeness of her body and that damned summery, strawberry scent. I shift my position so that she can’t feel my hard length pressing into the curve of her arse, even though all I ache to do is press every part of my skin against her.
If Winnie’s right and I collect things around me as a way of being in control, then I didn’t even know what control was until I met her, because every moment that I’m close to her threatens to unravel me.
“What do I do now?”
“I’ll control the speed.” My voice comes out husky as my fangs slide down. I hate myself for my weakness, for being torn between what is right and what I long for whenever I close my coffin lid. “You use your hands the way I showed you. Anchor your elbows against your body and push against the clay.”
