Page 23 of Gold & Shadow

“Will dry,” Orson interrupted, pressing a warm, wet washcloth between my legs and wiping away the evidence of what we had done. It was such a tender, caring gesture, one that I had definitely not experienced in the frantic experience with the human guard. “You are more important.”

“I’m fine,” I said, flipping back and feeling utterly boneless as I let Orson tend to me. “Truly.”

“Good,” Orson growled, pressing a kiss to the inside of my knee as he dried me off. “It can be a lot.”

“It was,” I confessed as he tossed the towels in a hamper and crawled back into the bed, folding me into his chest. “I loved it.”

“Good,” Orson said again, a chuckle rumbling through him and into me. He kissed the sensitive skin of my wrist, twining his fingers in mine. “You were perfect, Lis. So perfect that I intend to repeat the experience many, many times. If you are willing.”

“Hmm,” I said, pretending to contemplate the offer. “We’ll have to see.”

Orson laughed again, pulling me in close to his body. The warmth and exhaustion and cinnamon scent of him lulled me to sleep, my dreams filled with only him.

Chapter 12

“What does this mean?” I asked, tracing a circular pattern on Orson’s chest as we lazed in bed the next afternoon.

We had slept late, waking to make love twice more before my rumbling stomach drove Orson to the kitchen, grumbling about ‘needy females.’ He had returned with tea and toast and sausages, and we had eaten in bed, falling back into eachother once more.

Now I lay in the afterglow, examining the runic symbols tattooed into his chest.

“It is the vegvísir. A compass,” he explained, tapping the circle I had been tracing. “It guards the wearer so that they will always find their way.”

“Some of the symbols are the same as the ones around the outside of Artis’ paw,” I noted, comparing the tattoo to the amulet.

“The runes bind the spell of the amulet,” Orson replied, playing with my hair as I studied the symbols. “Think of it as allowing me to find my way back to myself.”

“Poetic,” I murmured, tracing the pattern of his tattoos down one arm to where they stopped at the second knuckle of each finger. “When did you get all of these? It must have taken a long time.”

“It did,” he confessed, catching my hand and twining my fingers with his. “Each time I failed to find my mother. To avenge my father. Each time I tried and failed, I had something new inked onto my skin.”

I blinked, sitting up to gape at him. “There are hundreds.”

He nodded, pulling me back down into his arms. “There are.”

A low hoot outside the window made Orson stiffen, his senses seeming to go on alert all at once.

“What?” I asked, sitting up and pushing to my knees to look out the window. I couldn’t see anyone, but the snow was thick and the tree-line dense.

“We have company,” Orson growled, rolling out of the bed and shifting. It had been two days since I had seen Orson in his shifted form, but the sight was no less terrifying or thrilling. He was far larger than any fae or elf or human, at least eight feet tall on his hind legs, and large enough that I could probably ride him if I wanted.

I tried not to blush at my own inadvertent innuendo, climbing out of the bed and pulling on clothes. I hadn’t worn boots in days, but they were in Orson’s room ready for me, along with a pair of thick woolen socks I had never seen before.

“Are these yours?” I asked, holding the socks up for Orson to see.

He looked at me steadily, his ursine expression unreadable, but his eyes still a warm, chocolatey brown. “They are yours,” he replied, his voice a deeper growl in bear form that reminded me of our earlier, grumpier acquaintance. “I made them for you.”

“You made them?” I asked, pulling on the thick, woolen lovelies. They looked to be hand knit, a brown bear woven into the design on each side. “You knit?”

“I told you,” Orson growled, his muzzle turning slightly more pink at just the tip of his black nose. “I like to keep my hands busy.”

Carving, knitting, stitching up wounds. Busy hands indeed.

I laughed, resisting the urge to throw my arms around the great beast. “Well, I love them. Thank you.”

“You should stay here,” Orson growled, prowling to the stairs as he watched me pull on boots over the wool socks. My cloakhad also been patched and mended, I guessed also by Orson, and I wondered when he’d had the time to do it all.

“Not a chance,” I replied, pulling my cloak over my golden hair. “This is my problem as much as it is yours.”