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“Do you need more serum?”

Her cheeks flushed. “No, it’s fine. I think more sleep will be enough.”

I pursed my lips but didn’t push her.

“Would you like to eat?”

This time she hesitated, her gaze shifting toward the small kitchen and the tray of food. The column of her throat moved as she swallowed. “No.”

“You’re sure?” I couldn’t help but push on this one.

She bit her lip, her teeth exacerbating the chapped skin. Then she shook her head once, barely a movement, like moving her head at all was painful. As I stood to grab the food, Amaria stepped forward, her voice soft.

“Can I take your cloak so it can properly dry?”

Amethyst’s hands trembled as she finally let go of the fire jar and held out the heavy fabric. Amaria grabbed it without missing a beat, adding it to her own cloak. Tray in hand, I filled one of the plain cups beside the sink with water and then crossed back to the sofa just as Amaria murmured a soft farewell to Amethyst that Shelby mirrored. A moment later, they left the innkeeper’s house, the door shutting heavily behind them. Amethyst flinched at the sound. It was automatic to set the cup on the floor beside the sofa and circle her wrist to offer a modicum of comfort. More of her scent wove around me.

I didn’t dare stay near her long enough for the intoxicating aroma to deteriorate what little self-control I still possessed. Instead, I left her to the food and carried the bags I’d dropped at the door up to the room prepared for us. An unlit oil lamp had been left on the worn table beside the bed. Even knowing my magic was as wrung out as my body, I tried to coax enough of it forward to light the lamp. When not even a wisp of it responded, I grabbed one of the matches left on the utilitarian dresser just inside the room and lit the oil manually, keeping it low enough to be little more than a single candle.

In the dim light, I arranged my prayer materials for the morning and set the smaller of the bags in the modest bathing room tucked behind a subtle pocket door. Then I carefully cleaned my hands of the dried blood and the cuts in my forearm, ensuring none of the urgul’s barbs were in my skin. The methodic motions soothed me enough I didn’t feel like I was one subtle flinch of Amethyst’s away from breaking.

A few of the stairs creaked as I descended them. Amethyst looked up from where she was setting the nearly-empty tray at her feet, the fire jar next to the cup of water. Even from my vantage on the stairs, her exhaustion was obvious.

“May I take you to the bed so you’re able to sleep?” I made sure to phrase it as a question that didn’t sound like I was making a comment about her own ability to get up the stairs. She stiffened each time a comment was made with that undertone.

“Okay.” The exhaustion was in her voice, too.

I didn’t bother to move the food as I carefully pulled her up into my arms. For a heartbeat, she stiffened against me, her hands fisted in the brown sweater. Then she relaxed, letting her cheek rest against my shoulder, and all that emotion I’d stuffed down tried to rise again, forming a heavy lump in my throat.

She didn’t say a word as I lay her on the mattress. She rolled onto her side, her tired eyes nearly translucent again.

“Callum?” Her voice was a whisper of sound and yet my knees weakened.

I swallowed. “Yes?”

She tucked her nose into the collar of my sweater, breathing deeply. Her eyes fluttered closed as she asked, “What if I don’t want to go back?”

The wisteria of my scent pulsed from me in time with my heartbeat. My hand trembled as I tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear again, trying to reign in my reaction. I was drowning in the instincts. Much more, and I would dissolve into tears that would help neither of us. She shivered, and then her own scent twined with mine, stronger than that morning after she woke up panicked. Just like I knew it would, my body responded. My eyesight sharpened, bringing the room into a greater focus despite the low light. My cock hardened, heavy and aching. All I wanted was to press her into the mattress until my scent was carved into her bones, impossible to remove.

“We’ll talk in the morning,” I managed to say.

Her sigh was more defeated than I’d ever heard from her, and it sliced through the arousal more effectively than any cold water. I wanted to apologize, to promise her she could stay, but I wouldn’t renege on my word even to just make her comfortable for the next week. What kind of male would I be if I so willingly lied?

Instead, I ran my thumb over her cheekbone until she fell asleep.

AMETHYST

The sun was a muted light spreading over the bed when I awoke, my eyes still aching, bathing the room with enough light to see the modest dresser across from the bed and a small door in the wall closest to me. The nightstand was made of the same light wood as the dresser, the handles carved out of the drawers rather than attached separately. The oil lamp was still there, though the flame was extinguished. The burning returned to my eyes, like I kept them open during a sandstorm. I blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the sensation. Then, almost without thought, I traced the angular lines of the tattoo behind my ear. The skin felt warm under my touch, and that had worry digging into my stomach.

There was the rustling of fabric on the other side of the bed. It took a moment to convince my body it could sit up. It felt like the time last year I let Sloane convince me to try a pole dancing class. Muscles I didn’t even know existed were sore for days. Then it had been my sides. This time it was my inner thighs. I pressed the heel of my hand into one of them, trying to rub out the soreness as much as I could.

“Good morning.”

Callum’s voice blended with the muted morning.

I twisted toward his side of the bed, but it was empty. Instead, he was kneeling on the floor under the only window in the room, facing toward the glass. No, not quite on the floor. There was a rug of some kind under him, a terra cotta fabric decorated in an intricate floral motif that reminded me of the unicorn tapestries we’d seen at the Met when we were still in college. Four large pillar candles were arranged in an arc in front of him, their flames burning brighter than the sunlight filling the room. His head was down, his hair falling like a curtain, blocking his face. He wore the thick pants he’d worn most nights but no shirt.

“Good morning,” I whispered, my throat dry.