How thoughtful. Thankfully, that hasn’t been a problem so far.
He leans forward, unlaces the center seam, then pulls it open to boast the lining—etched in so many glowing runes they’re hard to count. “The pants have extra padding between the thighs, and each garment has hidden pockets for your blades,” he continues, manipulating the jacket to expose some of the concealed slits. “I had panels lined with some of Rygun’s small claw scales I’ve been collecting since well before we first met, coated in a layer of pearl oxide for extra protection.Nothing’s getting through those, so your chest, back, and shoulders are safe.”
I look up, studying the slants of his face as he continues talking about this and that, showcasing different design aspects—more animated than I’ve ever seen him.
He seems younger. More vulnerable.
For some reason, it sends a pang of hurt through my chest.
“Once you’re fully garbed,” he says, showing off the impenetrable ellok hide boots, “you’ll blend with Líri and be fully equipped to ride bareback comfortably.”
“You like giving gifts …”
He looks up, seems to hesitate, then nods. Just once. “Hopefully it all fits, and you like the style. If not, the tailor can redo—”
I still his words with a kiss, his lips firm and unmoving at first, as though I caught him off guard. In the next beat, he melts, groaning into my mouth.
He captures my face in his warm hands—
The front door shoves wide, making way for a blast of snow and wind and the aching echo of another agonized scream.
“Hope you’re decent,” Pyrok yells, dousing all the brewing heat from my veins as he stomps the snow from his boots.
“Raeve’s armed,” Kaan growls, still gripping my face, his lips brushing my jaw like a slow-moving taunt.
Pyrok’s response is swift. “I’d be more worried if she wasn’t.”
“It’s theonlything she’s wearing.”
I pull back, mouthing the wordliar.
“Sounds like the perfect scenario for one of you to put me out of my misery.”
Kaan releases a deep rumbly sound that reminds me of the noise Líri makes when she’s preparing to rip into a piece of meat.
He leans back and thrusts both hands through his hair while I battle the urge to mount him despite the unexpected company, his eyes still firmly cast on my lips as Pyrok steps into view.
He kicks the door shut and stomps into the room, arms laden with a basket of bottles and a flat, buckled box. A flock of parchment larks bang against his shoulders, back, and head, fluttering vigorously.
I arch a brow. “Friends of yours?”
He grunts, not a single glance in my direction.
I take in his wild hair and the oversized tunic hanging off his broad shoulders like a loosely lain sheet, buttoned in all the wrong holes. Not the slightest bit tucked into his tight brown leather pants. All pretty unsurprising,except—
“I’ve never seen you so pale. Are you eating between drinks?”
“You know what, I actually enjoy the food this far south.” He drops the box and basket on the table before the seater, then begins snatching the larks by their wriggly wings, charging toward a floral urn like he’s on a mission from the Creators themselves.
He lifts the lid and stuffs them in the hollow, one at a time.
“I’mpalebecause I’ve been listening to Siharna scream through the wall for the past however-the-fuck-long.”
The larks keep spewing out, but he keeps swatting them back down as he works to rid himself of the boisterous flock, finally stamping the lid back in place.
He releases a blasted sigh and stalks back to the table, drops to his knees, then begins unloading the basket of bottles beside three deep, rather assumptive mugs. “There’s something unsettling about hearing someone yougenuinelyfear get broken down like that, and I’d quite like to scrub it from my brain.”
I count the bottles, certain there’s enough to scrub his brain all the way into oblivion.
