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I woke to a familiar smell. Flapjacks cooking over an open fire.
There was a time the scent would simply have filled me with hunger. And indeed, my stomach rumbled in response to the sweet fragrance.
But my mind had gone elsewhere. Flashing back in an instant to memories of Vesper and the woods of Cerunnos.
I felt a stab of pain as I remembered the feeling of Vesper’s dagger sliding into my belly. Sitting up in the tent, I instinctively touched a hand to the scar on my stomach.
A strong hand was placed atop mine. “He’s not here, Morgan. I am.”
I turned my head towards Draven’s dark one, feeling a multitude of emotions rush over me. Relief, gratitude, and over all of it, pure, intense, heartfelt love.
My mouth was on his before he had time to react, and I reached out my arms, pulling him tight against me, reveling in the warm, comforting sensation of his bare chest against my own.
He tasted like the mint leaves he’d been chewing. Evidently, he’d been up before me.
I pulled back, a little embarrassed. “You taste very fresh.”
Whereas I knew I did not.
He grinned and yanked me back against him. “And what? You don’t and you think I’d care?”
He buried his mouth against mine, biting down gently on my bottom lip until I gasped.
A hand slipped between my legs, and I groaned, then pushed it away.
“No, no, no.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” he murmured. “This is the perfect way to wake up in the morning.”
“It would be, yes. If it weren’t for the fact that everyone else is probably up already, listening to us right now,” I hissed.
He smirked. “Let them listen. What? Do you think we were so silent last night?”
I glanced up and saw the burn marks on the sides of our canvas tent. “Oh, gods.” I glared at him. “That was the Mermaid Song.”
“Sure it was,” he teased. “You tell yourself whatever you need to in order to look our friends in the face as you crawl out of that tent flap.”
“Damnable man! Detestable Siabra bastard,” I swore, beginning to rifle through the clothes strewn on one side of the tent, pulling out what I planned to wear that day and shoving the rest back into my saddlebag.
Draven lay there, grinning with his arms folded behind his head, evidently in no rush to get up as I yanked a forest-green tunic over my head, then pulled on trousers and finished up with the comfortable pair of knee-high leather riding boots I’d been wearing the day before.
Everything smelled like campfire smoke and horses. Fortunately, that was a combination I’d grown rather fond of.
I pushed open the tent flap and crawled out, then darted a hand back in to pull a cloak out with me. It was chilly by the sea in the mornings. A coating of dew still covered the grass.
Across from our tent, by the fire, Hawl was hunched over a large, cast-iron pan.
Fastening my cloak, I walked over to them slowly and peered into the pan, expecting to see the most delectable griddle cakes known to mortal or fae.
Instead, I covered my mouth. “Are those...moths?”
Hawl looked up. Ursidaur expressions could be difficult to read at times, but right now, I’d have sworn Hawl looked guilty.
“Good morning, Morgan.”
“Good morning, Hawl. Are those moths?” I repeated, stressing the last word.
“They’re packed full of protein and taste like butter,” Hawl assured me. “In fact, I’ve greased the pan with some of them.”
