What do I do with him?
Garrik shifts slightly, mouth twisted into a grimace like he’s already regretting everything he just said. “Are you okay?” he asks.
I don’t answer his question. Instead, I blurt, “Take me home.”
Garrik blinks. His grip tightens on his glass just slightly. “What?”
I swallow, suddenly hyperaware of how warm the room is, how golden his eyes are, how my skin is too tight for my body. “I?—”
I square my shoulders and look him in the eye.
“I want you to take me home.”
He sucks in a breath.
“…You’re drunk,” he says, and it sounds like it takes every ounce of his restraint not to make it a question.
“A little,” I admit, propping my elbow on the table and resting my cheek against my hand. “But that’s not why I’m asking.”
I feel like that sounded very cool, but I’m sure it was slurred and broken and not at all cool. Garrik blinks, his lashes fluttering, and I wonder if itwasin fact very cool because he just makes this noise low in his throat.
“Iris—”
I push myself to my feet, shaking the table a little and stumbling around to grip his shoulder, leaning in close.
“Take me home, Garrik,” I whisper.
I stumble back as he slides out of the booth, unfolding to his full height. He’s so, so tall. I look up at him and almost lose mybalance before he suddenly reaches down and scoops me into his arms.
I huff out a breath. “Garrik?”
“Where do you live?” he asks—not looking at me, voice strained.
My heart stutters. “Just…just down the street in a little apartment over a bookstore. I'm?—”
But he's moving before I can finish.
He strides out of the tavern with me still cradled in his arms like it’s nothing—like I weigh nothing, like this isn’t an absolutely unhinged turn of events. A couple people give us weird looks (because, even if we used to do this all the time, it isn’tnormalfor a Jotunbei to carry a human around), but Garrik doesn’t seem to care at all as we step out into the night.
The evening air is crisp, a welcome relief against the heat flooding my system, but it does nothing to cool the ridiculous, giddy warmth pooling in my stomach. I am beingcarried. By Garrik. Like a damsel. I let my head loll back, letting out a breathy laugh. “Wow. So strong.”
His grip tightens.
I peek up at him. His jaw is tense, eyes locked straight ahead, golden and hard with effort—like he’s focusing on anything other than me.
A terrible, wonderful idea strikes me.
I shift slightly, letting my fingers drift up his bicep.
His very, very large bicep.
I hum under my breath, deeply fascinated by the sheer size of it, how solid and immovable he is beneath my touch. “You have really nice arms,” I murmur, mostly to myself, trailing my fingers just a little lower, over the ridiculously thick muscle of his forearm.
Garrik’s stride falters.
“Iris.” His voice is low, rough.
I smile to myself, completely ignoring the warning in his tone. “Mmm?”
