Page 45
He gives a short laugh, surprised out of him before he can hide it. He catches himself quickly, pressing his lips together, but I have already heard it. I have already kept it. Laughter from my mate is something worth storing.
Little Ember drags a hand down his face. “This mind thing is gonna be a problem.”
Bond, I correct.
“Yeah, well, the bond needs manners.”
I let that settle. Manners are the little rules humans use when they want things but pretend not to.
He stares at me for a second, then shakes his head like he wants to be annoyed but can’t quite reach it.
“Great,” he says, and the dry drawl tugs a little stronger on the word. “A philosophical skull monster. Exactly what I needed after my life went to shit.”
Monster.
The word should not matter. Humans have used it for so long that it has worn smooth. Still, from his mouth, it feels different.
If I am a monster, I am yours first.
Little Ember stops breathing for half a heartbeat. His throat works, and his gaze drops to my hands before climbing back to the skull, the antlers, the pale light of my eyes.
He is still afraid of me. He wants me as well. The two feelings twist together in him, and I do not understand why humans make such a war of things that can live in the same body.
“That,” he says carefully, “is another one of those statements you should maybe not toss out like you’re commentin’ on the weather.”
Why?
“Because it sounds…” He stops, jaw working. The ember-marks on his cheeks grow brighter. Little Ember looks away toward the creek, then back at me as if he resents needing to finish his own sentence. “It sounds possessive.”
You belong to yourself, I send, because this is important, and I know humans fear cages. But the danger that comes for you belongs to me.
I feel the edge of his softness before he tucks it away behind sarcasm.
“Well,” he mutters, “that’s a hell of a loophole.”
Not loop. Path.
“It’s a figure of speech.”
Humans should say what they mean.
He lets out a sound that is almost a laugh and almost a groan. “You really don’t know what you’re doin’, do you?”
I tilt my head, and the lantern swings faintly, blue-white light slipping over the leaves between us. I know exactly what I am doing.
His scent flares, and I pause, studying him. I meant that I know how to guard him. How to watch the tree line, how to place myself between his body and threat, how to scent fear, how to follow blood, how to turn the forest itself against anything that would take him from me.
But Little Ember must hear something else beneath the words. Something that makes his pulse jump and his eyes darken.
Interesting.
He looks furious, embarrassed, and amused all at once, which I am beginning to understand is a common state for him around me. He wipes one hand over his mouth, trying to gather himself. “God, you’re dangerous.”
The word is not wrong, because I am dangerous. I was made to be. My hands can open bark and bone, my teeth can end a scream before it travels, and my antlers have broken things much older and stronger than human bodies. The forest does not step around me because I am gentle.
But he stands before me, warm and bright and alive, and I lower the weight of that truth into something he can hold.
To others. He looks up at me, and I send the rest carefully. Not to you.
