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She sat upright, tucking a leg beneath her as she faced him. “Like what?”
“Strong emotions change the way mates smell to each other.”
“How?”
“Well.” Zeke looked at the ceiling. “Um. You smell like roses, black raspberries, and mirabelle plums.”
“That’s specific.”
“It’s distinct,” I said, recalling the jams I’d tasted that reminded me of her scent.
Zeke nodded. “And sometimes your sweet, fruity scent sours if you’re upset.”
She looked at Cyn. “I thought you said I smelled like tarts.”
“You do.” He draped his arm over his bent knee. His face remained a blank slate, not giving anything away. “Like an apple crisp.”
“So I smell different to each of you?”
“No,” I said. “When you’re… excited,”—I cleared my throat—“the tartness of the plum and sweetness of the raspberries sharpen, mixing with apple. You smell the same to all four of us.”
She looked at each of us, her cheeks darkening when no one refuted my words. “Excited. You mean…”
“Aroused,” Ezra said.
“Kill me now.” She flopped back against the couch, covering her face. “I so don’t need you four knowing that.”
I chuckled. “It’s not so bad having mates who know when you’re… needy.”
Her hands dropped to her lap. “No one else can smell it?”
“Nope,” Zeke said. “Just us.”
“Fun,” she said with a bite of sarcasm.
“So what do I smell like?” I asked, wanting to steer the conversation away from topics that made me want to carry her upstairs and see just how strong I could make her scent.
She turned her head against the back of the couch to look at me. “Cinnamon and bay rum.”
“What does bay rum smell like?”
“Warm and spicy with a bit of citrus. We got a collection of beard oils in the shop a few months ago—one had that scent. I really liked it. You smell like that and cinnamon. Very Christmasy.”
Cyn snorted. “Christmas?”
“Mmhm. Oh!” She looked between us. “Do y’all celebrate holidays like humans do?”
“Not for the same reasons as humans do—like worshipping deities,” Ezra said. “But we’ve seen human celebrations on TV and in movies enough that our kind has taken up celebrating certain festivities outside of our own.”
Zeke turned sideways to face her, drawing one leg onto the couch and leaving the other foot on the floor. “Do me next.”
She blinked. “What?”
“What do I smell like to you?”
“Oh.” She laughed. “Um. Sweet honey and warm vanilla.”
The grin that spread across Zeke’s face made it clear he liked his scent profile. I wondered what that mixture smelled like to her. Candy? Cake? A warm drink? I’d have to ask her sometime.
