Page 71 of Let Slip the Dogs of War

They both leave, Grant chattering away, and Dante sighs, rubbing his hands over his face.

“Tired?”

“A little. That was a lot of magic.”

“You should rest.”

Dante nods. He’s already getting to his feet and sure enough, his face has a faint grey pallor to it. If they are to leave in a few hours, he needs to sleep.

“Go,” I say gently.

“Are you…” Dante swallows. “Are you coming?”

“If you want me there, yes.”

He approaches me slowly. I am still sitting in the armchair, and I have to tilt my head back to look at him. “I want you there.”

“Then I will join you in a few minutes. Get ready for bed.”

Dante studies my face—I do not know what he is searching for—then nods. “All right. See you in a few minutes then.”

He walks into the bedroom, and the door does not fully shut behind him. I take a moment to simply breathe. The true weight of all I have done these past three days will not hit me for a while yet. It is creeping in at the edges.

I shake my head and get to my feet. While Dante is here, I can maintain my control. Well, I can maintain control of my emotions. Control of my behaviour around him seems to be out of my grasp.

As I pass the greenhouse door, I pause. Something beats within, a faint shimmer of magic. I open the door and—

Freeze.

Is this what Dante was doing this afternoon? The pots have all been righted, the space tidied, dead plants in one corner, ready to be removed, but the pots… He has filled many of them with earth and I feel seeds and a smoky hint of his magic, just a nudge to encourage the seeds to sprout, to grow.

My heart pounds against my ribs. No one has ever done anything for me quite this meaningful. I step further into the greenhouse, and my magic brushes up against what he has wrapped around the seeds.

No wonder he is tired. He has poured enough into this, knowing that he still had to scry Cassian. A pot with a handful of lavender seeds sits in the centre of the workbench. I swallow hard, my eyes burning. He has not chosen the seeds himself. I know that. They are from here and must have been in the bag the witch gave him. But they will be riotous colours when they all bloom, not to mention flavour and scent…

“Lark?” Dante’s voice, over by the open door, is small. He does not enter the room. I cannot look at him right now. I need to gather myself, to thank him for such a wonderful gift, even as I know it is something to soften the blow of him leaving.

“Is it—I didn’t know if I should have come in here. I shouldn’t, right? I didn’t break anything. I just thought—”

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, the words sticking in my throat. Dante hears them. He falls silent. “It is the most wonderful thing another being has ever done for me.”

“You can’t—That’s not—” Bare feet pad across the cool floor of the greenhouse and Dante gently touches my hand. “You’re joking, right?”

“You know I am not.”

He makes a wounded sound, and I cannot help myself. I grab him by the front of that soft tunic and haul him close, slotting my mouth over his. Dante’s questing hands are just as greedy and hungry as my own. He slides his tongue into my mouth and I welcome him, welcome the way he shoves his hands into my hair before he tugs at my clothes, grunting and groaning for more.

I grab him by the hips and lift him onto the workbench. Dante tears his mouth away and gasps his shock. “You—”

“I could have you up against the wall if I wanted,” I growl, shoving at the hem of his tunic. He does not raise his arms and I force my hands to still. “I want you just as you are. I have always wanted that.”

He studies my face. Two days is no time at all for him to trust me, not when in that time I have revealed such a cutting betrayal in not telling him about our bond to begin with. But I believe he wants to. He nods once, then leans back and reaches for the hem of his tunic himself, tugging it up and over his head.

I absently take it from his hand and drop it on the floor. I cannot tear my eyes from him. Sure enough, I left a bruise on his shoulder earlier, and my eyes are drawn to that first, then the soft swell of his chest and the roundness of his stomach. His chest is covered in hair that I want to rub my cheek against. Underneath it all, his skin is soft and golden, not shimmering like a fae’s, but no less beautiful for it.

Dante squirms. I have been staring for too long. I kiss him again, and as I do, I step closer, nudging his thighs apart. He grasps my arms when I slide one hand down his front, tangling my fingers in the dark hair on his chest.

I kiss his jaw and tug gently with the hand I have in his chest hair, and Dante shivers in my arms. Oh, I have one regret for the future now. Not this; not doing this. That we may never do it again. That I will surely never get my fill of him.