Page 37 of Fated to the Fang

The fog thins like it was never there. Harbor House sits three streets away, warm-windowed and breakable. My room. My notes. Mabel asleep under a roof that suddenly feels made of paper.

"You can't go back there tonight," he says.

I glance at him knowing that's the truth. He tugs slightly and I follow him, hand in hand.

His house waits above the cliffs, behind a gate and old gray stone. Crimson Harbor is gothic, yet beautiful in every single way. It sits like it's daring the ocean to take it. Tall windows facing out to the horizon, the glass thick, throwing light across the path.

I glance down at his hand. Cool skin. Long fingers. A monster's hand, if I'm simple about it. A man's hand, if I'm honest.

Dorian unlocks the door, extends his arm into his home, and I walk in gazing at the tall ceilings and architecture.

"That was a great walk home," I say.

His mouth almost moves.

Inside, I read it like a site. Shelves of old books, spines uncracked at the bindings, everything in a careful, maybe specific order. Marble floors. A curved staircase. He watches me admire its beauty, but doesn't say anything. He pauses at the threshold after I step in, fingers still on the door, and for one second the house feels less like a house than a rib cage he has opened.

"Kitchen's the only warm room," he says. "This way."

A long island runs down the center of the kitchen, stone-topped, the surface worn smooth at one corner where a hand has rested for a century. I set my bag down. Then, because I'm tired of standing where people put me, I push myself up onto the island and sit.

Dorian comes to stand near me. Close. Not overpowering. I sense the weight between us. The sensation rumbles inside me. The bond.

"They knew my route," I say. "Not guessed. Knew.."

"Yes."

"So I'm protected." The word tastes wrong. "Conditionally. Tolerated. Watched. I spent today being argued about by a room of people deciding whether my memory was a problem they could afford. I feel like a problem."

"You're not."

"I'm a liability you're answerable for though. Helena said it to your face."

He's quiet a moment. "We will deal with whatever comes at us. I am concerned that the rogues know you matter to us. To me. You've become leverage."

"And your instinct is to lock me up somewhere like Rapunzel?"

"My instinct," he says, "is to control every risk between you and the world. I'm trying to choose something else."

"Choose what?"

"Trusting in myself. In you. It's kinda new."

I don't laugh, but something in me unclenches. "Partnership means I share the danger. The problems. The worries. You don't need to have me seeing the view from behind, we can see it beside each other instead."

"It's hard. New. I'm working on it."

I breathe. "I'm here anyway. I can't stop myself. That's what matters."

There's a silence that doesn't feel awkward. Just relaxed, and I've been wanting to ask something about the bond for a while.

"This bond. The mate thing." I tilt my head. "Does it come with a handbook? A warning label? Is there a customer service line I can call?"

He laughs. "No handbook."

"Returns policy?"

"None."