He growled and she laughed and stretched against him, feeling the pleasant ache of well-used muscles, the lingering warmth of the night before. “I need to go to Port Eyeja today. Zemma sent word they’re running low on the pendants.”
She felt him go still beneath her—just for a heartbeat, just a fraction of tension that rippled through his body before he deliberately let it go. A year ago, that stillness would have been followed by careful questions and a dozen small ways of trying to keep her safe. Now he simply waited, and she loved him fiercely for the restraint it cost him.
“Do you want company?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral.
She pushed herself up on one elbow so she could see his face in the morning light. Her mate. Her choice.
“Yes,” she said gently. “I want you to come.”
He couldn’t quite hide his relief, although he tried. “Because you need?—”
“Because I want.” She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his jaw, feeling the texture of short dense fur against her lips. “Because I like walking through the market with you. Because I like the way people look at us and know I’m yours and you’re mine. Because Izzie invited us for tea and I want you to come.”
The low rumbling sound that came from his chest was definitely a purr this time. She grinned against his throat.
“You’re purring.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
His arms came around her and he rolled, swift and easy despite his massive size, until she was pinned beneath him and laughing, her dark hair spread across the sleeping furs, her small body dwarfed by his. He braced himself above her on his forearms, careful of his weight, and looked down at her with an expression that made her breath catch.
“I am not purring,” he said, with immense dignity. “I am expressing satisfaction in a culturally appropriate manner.”
“That’s the longest way anyone’s ever said ‘purring’ in the history of language.”
He silenced her with a kiss that drove all thought of teasing from her mind. When he finally pulled back, she was breathing hard, her hands fisted in the fur of his shoulders, her body arched toward his in blatant demand.
“Breakfast,” she managed.
“Mm.”
“There are things?—”
“Things,” he agreed, and his mouth found the curve of her throat, and breakfast became a significantly delayed affair.
Later that morning, she was bent over a particularly stubborn piece of blue stone when his shadow filled the doorway.
“Ah,” he said. “There you are.”
She looked up from her workbench. “Where else would I be?”
He leaned one broad shoulder against the entrance to what had once been her sleeping cave.
It no longer looked anything like one.
The sleeping furs were gone. In their place stood two low worktables, shelves Njkall had carved into the stone walls, and dozens of shallow trays containing beads, polished stones, bone, wire, crystals, clasps, and all the other treasures she’d accumulated. Finished necklaces hung from wooden pegs along one wall, and the little sleeping cave’s excellent crystal light made it ideal for the delicate work.
His gaze traveled slowly around the room.
“I remember when this was a sleeping space.”
“So do I.”
“You used it occasionally.”
“I used it all the time.”
