The pulse in his ears pounded louder than the wind whipping past them.
It was a blessing her place was only a few blocks away.
He landed at her back door with a hard, bone-jarring thud, his boots grinding against the wet cobblestones as his wings snapped inward with a sharp final motion.
He kept her cradled against him.
He didn’t trust her balance.
Or his.
She fumbled clumsily with her keys while dangling comfortably in his arms, her scent—sweet, warm, and intoxicating—filling his head.
“My private jet,” she giggled, missing the lock twice, “needs refueling.”
“Did Myrtle give you something?” he asked, suspicion roughening his voice until it was a low vibration against her hair.
“Well…” She squinted at the lock, then rested her forehead against his jaw. “She asked if I wanted to try her drink. It was delicious.”
A soft, guilty giggle followed.
Rhavor closed his eyes for a second, fighting for air.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
He carried her upstairs, his boots heavy on the wood.
She nuzzled into his neck.
Bit him lightly.
He clenched his jaw, fighting the very real, very primal urge to press her against the nearest wall and let instinct take over.
Mine.
She kept squirming in his arms, though her blinking had slowed, her lashes turning heavy and dark.
He laid her gently on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath her weight.
He removed her shoes.
Slid her jacket from her shoulders.
She watched him through half-lidded eyes, smiling as though she had just won a prize she hadn’t expected to keep.
Within moments, her body softened fully into the pillows.
Myrtle’s potions never lasted long with humans.
Whatever had loosened Sylvie’s inhibitions would burn off soon enough.
He pulled the blanket over her and tucked it carefully around her shoulders, his large hands looking out of place against the floral print.
He stayed until he heard her breathing turn deep and regular.
Only then did he force himself out of the room.
He closed the door quietly and went downstairs.
