Once within, I lead us to a grouping of floor cushions, and setting a pillow on my lap, draw him down beside me.
“Lie down,” I say, patting the pillow.
Between his horns and the single wing, a bit of arranging is needed, but he complies without a sound.
With a touch of shyness, I begin stroking his hair. I start along his forehead, and as he relaxes, move toward his horns. I’ve never touched them before, and I’m hesitant to do so now. When my fingers brush near one, his brow tightens, and I pull away.
“No,” he says, reaching up to search for my hand. When he finds it, he places it back at the base of the horn.
“Are you sure?” I ask quietly.
“They ache.”
My lips part at the realization. Of course they do. They’re far larger than usual. I shift my touch to a gentle massage, and though he winces at first, he soon shuts his eyes, sagging with relief.
In time, the scales fade, the teeth recede, the wing withdraws. The slow transformation gives me time to think on his words, and when he looks more man than beast, I dare to ask, “Soren, when you said she can’t have me…did you mean my mother?”
For a moment, I worry I asked the question too soon. A fresh spate of scales breaks out along his forearms, and a growl rumbles from his throat. But with a look of concentration, he comes back to himself.
“Yes,” he says finally.
So that’s what this is. I continue my soft, steady touch. “That seems a bit selfish of a thought when her safety is in question,” I say without malice.
His eyebrows form a sharp peak of indignation. Then his eyes lower, and he sighs.
“You’re right.” He glances up at me, his gaze severe but sincere. “Forgive me, Serah.”
“I forgive you.”
He turns aside, almost as if embarrassed. “For what it’s worth,” he grumbles, “I don’t believe your mother is in danger.”
“I don’t either,” I say, and I didn’t know I thought so until I said it aloud. Doubting the pleas of one’s mother seems rather cold-hearted.
Then again, few mothers are like mine. For now, I tuck the thought away.
My cat friend, who has been stretched out across the bed, lumbers over, and with a huskymrow, climbs onto Soren’s chest.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, reaching out to remove him.
Soren’s arms fly up over the cat. “Why are you sorry?”
“I didn’t know if you would want him there. I believe he’s my cat now.”
Soren gapes. “He is not. He’smycat.”
My jaw drops. “What do you mean?”
“This cat came to me the day of your arrival. He chose me.”
“But he chosemethe day of my arrival. He came to my room.”
Soren eyes the cat. “What an opportunist you are.”
My cat friend answers with a slow blink. I cover my mouth to hide my grin. “I’m afraid we’ll just have to share him then.”
This elicits a few more grumbles on Soren’s part. “I suppose so.”
The cat folds his front feet beneath him and begins to purr. He seems rather pleased to be fought over. “What shall we call him?”
