Aurora eyes the pan skeptically. "Was?”
I straighten, jaw tight. "It’s salvageable."
She blinks down at the pan. It is not salvageable.
I take a moment to observe her. Her chopped hair is messy from sleep. She tucks the blue tips behind her ear, revealing rows of metal studs and rings adorning the shell of her ear. A bar cuts through her perfect eyebrow, only adding to her ire when she lifts at me in annoyance.
A black tank top clings to her frame, one strap slipping off her shoulder, leaving the ink on her arms bare to the warm kitchen light. She sports the same tattoo all the other Lost Girls have. A mix between a dripping poison apple and a skull and crossbones. But it’s the roses on fire, etched in red and gold on the swell of her bicep, that burn into me every time I look.
She looks nothing like the royal she was brought up to be. Instead of the forced mask of stateliness she’d been trained to wear, a natural confidence has bloomed in her over the last couple of weeks. It radiates from her without trying.
And fae lords help me, I want her. I want her so badly the need cuts through me. I’m dying to melt her until she resembles the butter on that skillet, to feel her lips give way under mine, to taste her so deeply she’s imprinted on my tongue. The desirepushes up against my skin until my fingers twitch and my forehead tingles from suppressing my urges.
I want to spread her legs and latch onto that perfect little clit with my lips until she’s clawing at the counter and making those mewls of pleasure I’ve memorized. Or maybe given a chance, I’d inspire a new pitch of moan or scream from her.
Aurora steps forward as I discreetly attempt to adjust my thickening length.
"I can help," she says, reaching for the pan just as flames leap up the side.
She startles back, but I’m already moving.
I grab the pan barehanded. Fire licks over my skin, harmless to me. Smoke twists around my wrist. She gasps. I toss the pan into the sink and crank the faucet with my knuckles.
Steam erupts in a hiss, clouding everything.
When it clears, she’s caged in. My arms are braced on either side, with her back to the counter. My body between her and the world.
"You okay?" I ask.
Aurora nods, slow and dazed. Her eyes are wide, her breath coming fast. Her lips...
She licks them, and their glistening plumpness becomes the center of my focus now that I know she’s okay.
"I was just trying to help," she whispers.
"I know." My voice is rough. "I see you trying. Every day." I force my gaze back up to meet hers, no longer talking about breakfast. I'm in awe of how she tries, of how she’s adapted, of how she’s picked herself up after disappointment or embarrassment.
By the pink flooding her cheeks, I know she hears everything I’m not saying.
"Doesn’t mean I think this plan of yours is smart,” I add in a stern tone. “But you are so...impressive, Aura."
Her breath catches, but she doesn’t move. Neither do I.
I know I should, but I can’t force my muscles to budge. My body drinks up her nearness. It’s as close as we’ll ever get, but I revel in it.
Even with the few inches between us, my claws have sunk so deeply into her soul, entwined around her heart, that no one else could ever reach her core. No matter whose flesh invades or penetrates hers, they will never reach the profound depths I have claimed. I'll always be deeper, guarding her fiercely, adoring her with unbreakable devotion.
For so long, my life was about being alone and making the most of my solitude. Then it became about protecting Aurora, about following the rules, and cleaning up after the curse. But since we’ve been here, she hasn’t needed my protection. Which has allowed me to become more than her guardian.
Sometimes I’m just a man, and she’s just a woman.
The last few weeks have been full of these moments. Little domestic things, like going to work together then coming home. The paycheck is miniscule compared to the fortune she’s entitled to, but the money feels so well earned. We pick out fresh produce at the farmer’s market. She forces me to drink cheap boxed wine and watch crappy reality television which I claim not to care for, but I’m secretly invested in the drama. She banters with the Lost Girls, who frequently poke fun at me, and she understands that I don’t mind being the butt of the joke if it brings her joy.
And I’m constantly teased by the lot of them for visiting the sketchy lobster roll food truck at least once a day. Since they aren’t convinced by the butter to lobster ratio as to why it’s a perfect meal, I have to point out how reasonably priced they are. That I’m being frugal in a city that is insanely overpriced.
Snow and Ariel insist that the hospital bills will change my mind when I end up with botulism.
The line that’s always separated us is blurring, and I’m struggling to maintain those boundaries.
