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He crossed his arms against his chest. “Handle it, how?”
“I would have spoken with Roth after class. He struggles with reading. He only needs a little extra attention.”
“And if you could not find him after class? Or he would not listen?”
Her soft lips pressed together. “Then I would have addressed the matter with Lord Conn.”
“Who would have told me to deal with it.” Griff shrugged. “My way just saved you a couple of steps.”
“And possibly cost me the trust of my students.”
She did not back down. Stubborn. He tried not to like that about her.
“They trust you,” he said. He figured she needed to hear it, and it was true.
“They like me because I feed them regular meals, which is not the same thing at all.”
He grinned. “There is that.”
“Thank you for the fish this morning,” she added.
He moved closer so he could smell her hair. “You are welcome.”
He thought her breathing hitched, but she did not move away. “About the students—” she said.
“Young bulls fight to establish their place. You outrank them. But they need to know if they step out of line, they deal with me.”
Her lips curved before she shook her head. “They are children, not animals.”
They were children who would grow up to be animals, who would learn to take their proper place and form in the sea. But he did not think she was ready for that explanation. Not yet.
He was silent.
“It’s important that they respect my authority,” she continued earnestly.
“Aye.” His tone was dry. “So you said.”
“I will be your mistress, or I will be the children’s teacher,” she had told him when she barred him from her bed. “I cannot be both.”
He saw her remember, watched the wild color bloom in her face.
Standing this close, he could see the freckles on her nose, feel the faint warmth of her body, smell chalk and soap and the feminine perfume of her skin and hair. A strand had escaped its bounds to curl against her neck. He caught the curl between his fingers, watching the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the gray fabric of her dress. She did not protest, did not slap his hand away. So, brushing the strand aside, he pressed a kiss to the side of her throat.
Her pulse leaped wildly under his lips. Her hands reached up and clutched his shoulders. She tasted of salt and desire. He raised his head to look at her—wary, brave, determined Emma—and then kissed her as humans kissed, face-to-face, mouth-to-mouth, sharing his breath, stealing hers.
Her lips were moist and soft. His tongue stroked them, probed them, seeking entrance. With a little moan, she opened to him, tender, yielding. He fed on her response, her human heart, her human soul, there on her lips.
He raised his head with a groan.
“Emma.” He gave her her name. He did not know what else to give her. He was not at all sure what she would accept.
He was a warden, a warrior. For centuries, he had battled the encroachments of demons with confidence and skill. Now, with her, he was as awkward and uncertain as a pup on ice.
Her wide blue gaze focused on his face, her pupils dilated. She looked as dazed as he felt.
“Are you—” What? “—happy?” he asked.
She blinked. “With our…arrangement, do you mean?”
