Then he settled behind me. His chest against my back, legs bracketing mine, wings folding over us both until we were cocooned in warmth and darkness and the sound of his racing heart.
“You’re shaking,” I said. I could feel it now that I was pressed against him. A fine tremor running through his entire body, like a wire pulled too tight.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His breath stirred my hair. “Because I want. And I am trying. Not to.”
“Not to what?”
Silence. His hands were pressed flat against the furs on either side of me, not touching me anywhere except where our bodies naturally rested together. Deliberate distance. Controlled.
“Take.” The word came out scraped raw. “I am trying not to. Take. To keep.”
I turned in his arms. It required rearranging, awkward in the confined space, but he let me move. Let me shift until I was facing him, my knees on either side of his hips, looking up into eyes that burned gold in the darkness.
His hands stayed pressed against the furs. Claws extended, I realized. Digging into the fabric. Holding himself in place.
“What if I want you to keep me?” I asked.
His breath caught. Actually caught, like the words had hit him somewhere physical.
“You do not. Understand.” Each word was a fight. “If I stop fighting. If I let go. I won’t be able to pull back. I will keep you. I will never let you leave. I will spend every. Moment. Of my existence. Making sure you are safe and warm and. Mine.”
“That’s supposed to scare me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He made a sound. Not a word. Something between a growl and a keen, frustration and desperation tangled together.
“Because it should. Because wanting. To own someone. To possess them. To build a. Nest. Around them and never let them go. That is not. That is not what you. Deserve. You deserve. Freedom. Choice. A mate who does not. Become a monster when he. Looks at you.”
I touched his face.
His whole body jerked. The claws sank deeper into the furs, and I heard fabric tear.
“For years,” I said. “For years I was useful. I kept accounts and copied documents and made myself valuable because valuable things don’t get thrown away. And not once. Not one single time. Did anyone look at me like nothing else existed.”
His eyes were fixed on my face. Unblinking.
“Then you show up at a bride market and pay a fortune for a scribe with ink on her fingers. And you bring me to a mountainfull of books. And you build me a nest out of my favorite things while I sleep.” My voice cracked, just slightly. “And you shake. Because you want me so much. And you’re afraid it’s wrong to want.”
“It is. Wrong. To want this much. To need. This much.”
“Says who?”
He had no answer for that.
“Maybe I’m tired of being useful,” I said. “Maybe I’m ready to be wanted. Maybe I want someone to look at me like you’re looking at me right now, and maybe I don’t care if that’s obsession or madness or transformation or whatever this is.”
I leaned closer. His breath came faster, each exhale burning hot against my lips.
“So maybe I’m ready to want something too.”
“What.” The word was barely a whisper. “What do you want?”
