She studied him, her green eyes dancing between his, and then—with a small inhale—she leaned forward and pressed her mouth to the space just below his teeth, where his lips would have rested if he had any. The contact was light. It was warm, and it lasted a second.
It was not violent. It was . . . delicate.
When Lyssena pulled back, Erevos was unsure what had just happened.
“I want to understand,” he said at last, his tone solemn despite the bloom beginning to spread through him.
Her brows lifted.
“Again,” he clarified, leaning down to her face.
A small smile curved her mouth, and she pressed her lips to him once more, this time lingering a fraction longer, her fingers tightening against his jaw as though testing whether he might bite.
He did not.
He only absorbed the sensation, the softness, the warmth, the faint taste of her breath.
When she withdrew, she let out a small, breathy giggle. Warmth bloomed through him all over again, curling through his shadows until they shifted around them like a living embrace.
Erevos tightened his hold on her just enough not to restrain, only enough to ensure she remained exactly where she was. He did not yet understand kissing or the fluid he had spilled.
But he understood that he wanted to learn everything with her.
“I think it may be time to clean up,” Lyssena said.
“Yes,” he agreed at once.
He brushed her hair away from her forehead and carried her from the kitchen, his feet making no sound against the shadow-formed floor.
The hallway beyond was almost done. While his songbird slept, Erevos tended to the house. His current project was the breaks on the walls. He wanted to make them even and to have Lyssena enjoy the decoration and texture, rather than emptysurfaces. Soon, the house would be complete, and it would be worthy of her.
He glanced down at Lyssena, imagining her wandering these halls, choosing fabrics and shapes, imprinting herself into every dark corner until the place bore her mark as much as his.
The thought brought him joy.
When they reached the end of the corridor, he nudged open the door to the bathing chamber, where the water he created stayed warm and steamy.
Lyssena shifted in his arms. “I need to . . . relieve myself first,” she admitted, her cheeks pinking despite everything they had just done.
He carried her directly to the waste pot tucked near the far wall and set her upon it.
Lyssena blinked up at him. “I am not a child,” she said, looking at the pot, then back at him. “I can do that myself.”
“I am aware,” he replied.
She paused. “Then why did you carry me to it?”
“You are required to be placed upon it,” he said. “You are tired.”
Lyssena stared at him for a long moment, then huffed a faint breath. “That does not mean you must supervise.”
“I am not supervising,” he countered, folding his arms as he remained exactly where he was. “I am observing.”
Her lips twitched despite herself. “Unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he said, “you remain seated.”
She tried—and failed—to suppress a smile before shaking her head and lifting the hem of her gown out of the way.
