I take a deep breath, finish my last swallow of tea, then toss my cup in a bin a few feet from my car. Cielo stutters to a stop as he licks at the last of his latte, and I do my best not to imagine what that tongue could do to me.
I feel that temple pressure again. Cielo’s staring at me now, his eyes a little wider than usual. He lets me go so he can throw his cup away, and the sensation is gone before I can blink.
Was that…but no. That wasn’t him.
It couldn’t be him.
Vyastil don’t read minds. That’s not a thing.
‘You ready?’ I ask in sign now that my hands are free.
His mouth softens into a smile, and he lifts his hands in reply. ‘Yes. Let’s go.’
A little spark of panic rushes up my spine when I feel it. The first tell that another flare is incoming. I’m at the kitchen counter pouring some sauce from a jar into a pot when the persistent tingling becomes sharper and less forgiving.
I take a deep breath, trying to will it away. It’s manageable right now, but it’s not going to last. I hate the sensation. It’s deep beneath my skin, spreading across all my nerve endings. It’s relentless and unkind.
And it’s going to have me curled up in bed trying those stupid-ass dragon breath exercises to cope.
My hands are shaking, but I ignore them for now. If the universe is going to be nice at all, it’ll give me dinner with Cielo.It’ll give me conversation and peace before it takes me out at the knees.
But I don’t trust the universe, and I don’t trust my own body.
The pasta’s ready at least, along with some salad and some bread we picked up on the way back from the shop. Cielo’s in front of the TV watching an ASL DVD and absorbing more and more of the language, which is making conversing a lot easier.
At some point, he’s going to become fluent enough to tell me exactly what happened to him on Erethar, and while I want to hear it—I want to be the person who allows him to unburden himself—I’m not sure I’m ever going to be ready for it.
The state he was in when I found him lying in Everest’s arms…
I still have nightmares about it.
Taking a deep breath, I ignore the increasingly sharp pains in the bottoms of my feet. They’re starting to spread upward, over my calves. Eventually, they’ll crest my thighs and get me right in the gut, and that’s when I won’t be able to stay upright.
I wish I fucking knew what was wrong with me.
“Dinner,” I say.
Cielo trills something, and a moment later, he appears. He’s shed his coat and is wearing my sheer purple robe that almost matches the color of his hair, and is barely cinched around his waist.
He looks so fucking good.
My mouth is a little dry, and I gulp down water from my glass before refilling it, filling his, then taking everything to the table. He lopes over, all limbs, and folds himself into a chair, giving me a proud smile.
Something in me snaps. I don’t know why I do it. It’s like something takes over—a strange pull—and I find myself leaning toward him and pressing my lips to his forehead.
He makes a soft noise at the contact, but I can tell it’s not one of protest. He leans into me, a bit like a cat, and I linger like that until I know I’ve been kissing him for far too long.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
I start to pull back, but he reaches up with lightning-fast reflexes and digs his claws into my shoulder. They don’t break the skin. They don’t even come close to hurting. But they are possessive.
This time, the noise he makes is almost like a challenge. I have enough space to pull back to see him, and he lifts his free hand between us. He points at me, then his thumb drags under his chin before his hand forms a fist and circles it over his chest.
‘You not sorry.’
I grin down at him. “Okay,” I whisper.
He lets me go only to sign, ‘Again.’
