"I’ve cracked myself back into place," he exclaimed in wonder, nearly doubling over in musical laughter as she gaped, the puddles across her stomach beginning to cool uncomfortably.A possible kink downside."If I’d known all I needed to do was have a row with those miserable cunts, I’d have done it a month ago. You’re a sight, dove, let’s get you into a bath."
A sharp gust of cold air woke her later that night, and she found him standing before the open window down the hall, his eyes far away once more.
"What are you doing? It’s the middle of the night."
"It’s always night in her majesty’s forest," he answered dreamily, a completely nonsensical response. "Can you hear that music, Silva? Can you hear them dancing?" Beyond the window, the night was silent. "The bonfires have started. The veil is getting thinner every day." His eyes were fixed on the middle distance, at a point she was unable to see, and she shivered from more than just the cold.
"Come back to bed with me," she insisted, reaching around him to push down the window lift, locking the sash for good measure before threading her fingers with his. "Tate? Come back to bed with me, I’m cold without you."
To her relief, he did not argue. She pulled him against her in the sea of fluffy white bedding, with his head on her shoulder and her fingers in his hair, flattening herself beneath his heat. She wound her legs with his, so that she’d wake if he got up again, her stomach tightening at the inexplicably smokey smell of his hair, finding his hand in the sheets and lacing their fingers once more.Caretaker trope it is.Keeping him close, she told herself, winding him back to her heart.
Ris
He was a programmer.
It was a shockingly mundane profession for someone like him, she thought, hunching over the table in laughter at the thought of him sitting in the tech department in her office, wearing the department's green polo, the peaks of his mohawk visible over the top of a cubicle. He specialized in a specific programming language, one she knew ran on her office computer, furthering the amusing vision until she was breathless and wheezing, her composure a thing of the past. His name was Ainsley, an improbable-sounding name for an orc, and he lived in Starling Heights, the suburb on the other side of the resort hamlet. The town was larger and older than Cambric Creek, a bit more urban in feel, and its business district teemed with every chain store under the sun, in addition to a tight press of bars and restaurants. She’d had fun the few times she’d met dates and friends there, but it was too far to visit regularly, not when Cambric Creek had its own thriving nightlife and the main city was only a short drive away.
"I thought for sure you were going to say a musician. Is that super stereotypical of me? I’m trying to picture you in the tech uniform at my office . . ." The warmth from the heater above flushing her cheeks when he laughed, eyes still sparkling, reaching across the table for her glass.
"Well, I do play in a band, so you’re not completely wrong," he chuckled, topping off her champagne flute. "We don’t have a uniform, thank the stars, but Idohave to wear a lanyard, and that’s bad enough. My work ID makes me look like it's my first day of prison and no one told me I shouldn’t actually smile when they took our pictures."
She'd already laughed more in the short time they'd been together then she had on her last several dates combined, Ris thought, her shoulders shaking again, her face beginning to ache for how long she’d been smiling. He shrugged with a grin, leaning back in his seat, looking incredibly pleased with himself, the glow from the overhead strand of twinkle lights glinting off his numerous piercings.
After leaving the disaster at the bar, he’d set her carefully on the sidewalk, weaving his fingers with her own before tugging her down the street. They wound up at the little bistro on the corner where the terrifying server worked. Ainsley relayed the story of the bar fight to a beautiful mothwoman, the same hostess Ris remembered from her last visit.
"You’re supposed to be sending down one of the boys to help clean up, and we get a bottle of the house bubbly."
The lovely moth frowned, her delicate brows drawing together. "Rukh didn't say anything about a bottle..."
"It’s Rukh, are you surprised? This lovely lady was trapped amidst the melee and I kept her safe. Better not call Tate, he’s indisposed tonight."
The hostess snorted, shaking her head. "Indisposed the rest of the weekend, actually. He’s been on for two months straight. me, I’m not calling and getting my head bitten off . . . fine, a bottle of the house, but you have to sit on the patio so we can start shutting down the dining room."
The patio had several torchiere-style heaters, and they’d chosen a table beneath one. She’d sipped the champagne he’d poured as Ainsley fired the heater up, and the effect—sitting with him at the small bistro table with the heat radiating down, surrounded by the tiny white lights—was surprisingly cozy. He’d asked her about her job, about the meaning of her name, what books she’d read and movies she loved. Ris hadn’t had a date pay quite this much attention to her in recent memory, embarrassing considering how many she’d been on, but she quite enjoyed the nonchalant way he shrugged and his easy smile.
"So a weekend trip alone? Mental recharge from the office grind? And why exactly is it herd resources? I've always hated that. It makes us sound like a bunch of hippos fighting over the only working copy machine."
