Page 54 of May: Bloom & Bane

“There are many words for that, Eden,” he murmurs against my skin. “But the one that fits best is selvara. It means the tie that can’t be broken. The vine that outlasts the winter.”

“Selvara,” I whisper, trying the word.

His breath catches, and his fingers tighten around mine.

“Your accent is… dangerous,” he rasps. His thumb grazes the pulse point at my wrist.

I tilt my head, lips inches from his. “And what do I call you… in Luvárun?”

He presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth. “Halíshe,” he murmurs. “It means heart-root. The part of the tree that feels the sun first. The pieces that keep the rest alive.”

He pulls back just enough to look me in the eye. “You are the light, Eden. And I am simply what grows because of it.”

A cheerful ding echoes through the kitchen. A gold bell that definitely wasn’t next to the oven five minutes ago. The oven door creaks open, releasing a heavenly cloud of steam smelling of caramelized peaches and a warm summer afternoon.

“Should we let it burn?” His lips move against mine.

I laugh. “Not to be dramatic, but if I don’t eat soon… I might die.”

He reaches into the oven, not bothering with mitts. The stepping stones of dough have puffed up into golden, craggy islands, surrounded by a bubbling orange sea of peach syrup.

He sets it between us.

“Well, sous-chef,” I say, looking at the two spoons that have magically appeared next to the cast iron. “Shall we see if your claw-whisking technique actually worked?”

CHAPTER 19

eat our mate instead

—SAGE

The spoon hovers near her lips. A thin golden string stretches between the metal and her tongue. I watch the way her mouth opens just enough to catch the drip, her tongue sliding out slowly. The honey clings to the underside of the spoon. She licks upward, catching every bit of it. I have never wanted to be a kitchen utensil more in my life.

Who gives a damn about the cobbler? Eat our mate instead, Ashán growls in my head.

My vék twitches hard against the leaves covering it. She drags her tongue along the spoon’s curve again, slower this time, and I imagine that same wet heat sliding over my⁠—

A cool breeze sweeps through the kitchen.

“You have made quite a mess, Sage,” a layered voice drawls.

My wings shoot out as Therael steps into the kitchen. He looks the same as the other night, graceful, but carrying the weight of a million midnights in his eyes.

“The kitchen is spotless.”

“I was not talking about the kitchen.” He glances down at the leaves covering my pelvis.

Eden freezes on the counter, her eyes widening as she stares at the god standing in our kitchen.

“I told you I would be back,” he says.

“You did.” My wings tighten against my back, and I step toward Eden, resting a hand on the counter near her hip.

“Eden, this is Therael. He’s the one who made Nook for us.”

She looks from me to him, her lips parting in surprise. “You? You’re the one who gave us the slide?”

A ghost of a smile touches his tired face. “The house has its own sense of humor. I merely provided the foundation.”