Before I can even react, he dips a finger straight into the honey, scooping up a thick swirl of it. I don’t even have time to process the fact that he’s using his finger again before he lifts it toward me—offering, waiting.
Oh.
Oh, that’s interesting.
Garrik’s hand stays suspended between us, his golden eyes dark. I glance at his finger, then at him. His expression is tense, like he just realized what he’s done but now can’t figure out how to back out of it.
Which means I absolutely cannot back out of it either.
I take his wrist gently, guiding his hand toward me. He makes a barely audible sound—something between a swallow and a choked-off groan—but he doesn’t pull away.
I lean in slowly, deliberately. His breathing hitches.
And then—I take his finger into my mouth.
The taste floods my tongue immediately—richer, deeper, with a caramel warmth that lingers, slow and golden and decadent. I hum softly, savoring it, swirling my tongue over his fingertip to catch every last drop.
Garrik stops breathing.
He just stands there, frozen, every muscle in his body locked, his golden eyes wide and wild. His lips part slightly, like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out.
I release his finger slowly, letting my lips drag against his skin, and when I pull back, my heart is pounding.
Oh, shit.
Oh, fuck.
I just did that…and he wanted me to.
He stares at me, visibly struggling to process his own existence. His mouth opens, closes, opens again.
I am so close to completely losing it when?—
“Dinner’s ready!”
We both lurch back like we’ve been electrocuted.
The door swings open, and Flora’s head peeks inside. “Are you two—” She stops immediately, taking in the absolute disaster of whatever the fuck is happening in this room.
I whip around, my face on fire. “Yep! Yes! Totally normal! Nothing weird happening in here!”
Flora slowly raises an eyebrow.
Garrik is still frozen, his hand still halfway raised, his pupils still too wide. He looks like he’s about to pass out.
Flora smirks.
“Uh-huh,” she says, her voice absolutely dripping with amusement. “Sure.”
6
GARRIK
I’ve fought war beasts the size of small buildings. I’ve stared down enthralled Skoll warlords, outrun firestorms, and once—on one of the worst days of my life—I carried an entire field pack of human texts across a collapsing bridge while Iris read poetry over comms like it was her last act on Earth.
None of that prepared me for this dinner.
Not with her. Not here.
