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He strolls around without pants on, and leaves the door open to the bathroom when he washes his nude body, and constantly wants to watch shows by my side—then when we do, he puts his head in my lap. Oh, I have crossed your boundary, he said to me last night, in a way that should have really stopped me feeling like this.

But instead it just made it worse.

Nobody tells you that chivalry is not dull at all.

It’s like being squeezed to death in a sex vise. Suddenly every look, every touch, every whisper in my ear seems to stop my breath. His hand brushes mine as we reach for the same book, and I want to scream. Literally the only positive thing going on right now is that I’ve exhausted every spell I know trying to find some threat, and discovered nothing.

But even that has a downside to it, too.

Now there are no more distractions.

No more excuses to steer clear of whatever this is. There is just the glow of the television—mostly a soft and deeply atmospheric blue from the movie I shouldn’t have chosen. And the music, even sweeter than that strange light. And then him, sitting across from me at this tiny table, his big body folded around his book as he pretends to read about sprites that haunt libraries.

Because he is pretending.

I watch him, steadily—mainly as I can’t seem to do anything else—and after a moment of staring at one sentence on the page, he just tries to sneak a slow, careful look from under his eyelashes. No moving his head, no other signs that he’s doing this. If I weren’t staring myself, I probably would never have known.

But I do now.

That heavy-lidded gaze hits me like nothing else.

It’s almost as intense as my own gaze feels, and with a flurry of other deliriously sensuous qualities around it, too. The way his now soft hair hangs over his forehead, how long his lashes suddenly look, the sweet, soft part of his lips. No sharp teeth, I think, with a kind of strange relief.

But then he blushes and jerks back in his seat, and I see them.

They are there. Those curves, the wicked points. The way they gleam in the low light, and make me think of that sweet sting. Then somehow, somehow I find myself turning my head, just a little. Lifting my chin, like I want him to look just below it. Even though I don’t, I swear.

If you buzz I’m going to throw something at you, I think at Phone.

But of course she can’t. She’s on charge at the moment.

There’s just me and him, and he’s definitely looking. He’s leaning forward—until he abruptly isn’t. “I should really go find something to eat,” he says, as he stands. Only he doesn’t do it in a typically smooth and seamless way. He stumbles midway to his feet and knocks against the table. One of the books slides and hits the floor. I hear him muttering, “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” as he heads for the door.

God knows what possesses me to tell him to stop.

I should be urging him in the direction of the nearest deer.

Instead, I find myself saying, “You can’t risk it.”

Even though we both know that’s not true.

“Our search has proven our safety, Sorceress.”

“Well, yes, I know.”

“Then rest easy. I shall return after my hunt, as well as you see me now.”

“Of course you will. But I mean, I just think that we should stick together.”

“You wish to come with me, as I take the life of a being and drink from it?”

I picture the scene when he says it. His great beast of a body curved over his prey. Blood staining his mouth, his throat, as he slakes his thirst. That red on white, just like in the library—only more beautiful, more intense, because it’ll be in the woods, in the dead of night. All I will be able to see is the shine of that liquid and the gleam of his teeth and the glint of his feral eyes.

Followed by his hand, finding my thigh.

Oh yes, I think. Yes, that hand on my thigh.

Then realize I haven’t spoken for a loooooong time.