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Her chin dips once, twice, and then her cheek comes down flat against an open chapter titled The Coagulation Rites of New Orleans. Her breathing evens out into a soft, steady rhythm, her lips parted slightly against the vellum.
Kirk, who had been snoozing on top of an encyclopedia stack, gives a quiet creak, jumps down to the parquet with a solid thud, and curls around the toe of her slipper.
I tell myself I should leave her there. The chair is soft enough. A stiff neck builds character.
I cross the floor before the thought even finishes.
I slide the heavy tome out from under her cheek, setting it gently on the table, and then I lean down.
When I scoop her up, she barely weighs more than a bundle of dry birch. She makes a tiny, annoyed snuffling noise, burrowing her face straight into the crook of my neck, her cold nose pressing against my jugular.
My breath catches hard enough to rattle my chest.
Mine, the beast grunts, clawing at the bars of his mental cage. Carry her to the den. Keep her.
"Shut up," I grind out under my breath.
Her fleece sweater is ridiculously soft against my forearms. She smells like dark coffee, raw honey, and that wild, clean heather that belongs only to her. Her left arm hangs loose over my bicep, the living Celtic braid on her wrist glowing a faint, drowsy cyan against her skin.
I carry her to her rooms. Every step is an exercise in pure agony. Her breath puffs warm against the bare skin of my throat, her lips brushing my pulse point with every stride.
I kick her bedroom door open, lay her down on the velvet quilt, and pull off her ridiculous shearling slippers. I tuck the heavy duvet up around her shoulders so the draft doesn't touch her.
My hand lingers on the edge of the blanket.
Just a second too long.
A strand of dark hair is stuck to her cheek, caught near her mouth. My thumb moves on its own, hooking the curl, brushing it gently behind her ear. Her skin is scorching, impossibly soft.
She sighs in her sleep, leaning her cheek into my rough palm.
I jerk my hand back like the skin burned me, shove both fists deep into my pockets, and back out of the room, pulling the door shut until the latch clicks.
Professional. Just a guard doing his rounds.
By day nine, I’ve given up pretending I don't care about the coffee.
She won't drink it black anymore. Not since she figured out the larder keeps raw honeycomb from the local orchard.
I’m in the kitchen at five in the morning, before the frost has even started to melt off the courtyard flagstones. The house is dead silent except for the low hiss of the gas range.
I don't need coffee. Shifters drink water and blood and dark ale. But I find myself standing over the copper French press anyway, measuring out two heaping scoops of the dark roast she likes, grinding the beans by hand with the antique iron mill on the counter so the racket doesn't wake her early.
I pull the clay pitcher of heavy cream from the cold room, setting it by the kettle to take the chill off. Then I take a paring knife, cut a thick, dripping square of the golden honeycomb, and set it in a little bowl next to her favorite chipped mug.
When her socked feet come shuffling down the hall an hour later, hair sticking out in three different directions like an owl's nest, the water is just coming to a boil.
"You're awake," she croaks, leaning against the kitchen doorframe like a woman who barely survived a shipwreck.
"Aye," I say, keeping my back to her as I pour the steaming water over the grounds. "Bears don't sleep past dawn."
"Bears are deeply obnoxious morning people," she mutters, dragging her feet over to the island and climbing onto the barstool. She drops her chin into her hands, blinking sleepily at the little bowl. "Wait. Did you cut the honeycomb for me?"
"The jar was sticky," I lie, sliding the mug into her reach. "Didn't want honey all over the soapstone."
She looks up at me through her lashes, the corner of her mouth curving into that small, crooked smile that does catastrophic things to my ribcage.
"You're a giant softie, MacTavish."
