Page 61 of Impawssible Magic

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know I’ll die before I let anything happen to you.” The words come out rougher than I intended. More honest. “I know that whatever this is between us, I want it. All of it. For the rest of my life.”

Her eyes are bright. Wet. She blinks rapidly, fighting tears.

“That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me while I’m sitting on a floor covered in cat hair and herb residue.”

“I’ll work on my timing.”

“Don’t.” She closes the distance between us.

The kiss is nothing like I expected.

I expected heat. Urgency. The explosive release of weeks of tension finally snapping.

Instead, it’s soft. Slow. Her lips move against mine with careful intention, learning the shape of me the way she learns her crystals—patient, thorough, attentive to every response. Her hand slides into my hair, fingers curling against my scalp. My hand finds the curve of her waist, pulling her closer.

Shadow shifts in her lap—we break apart long enough to move him gently to a nest of blankets on her workbench. The amethyst pulses approvingly. The rose quartz practically glows.

Then her hands are in my shirt, tugging me back, and my mouth finds hers again.

This time it’s different. Hungrier. The weeks of denial building to inevitable conclusion. Her back hits the edge of the workbench. I lift her onto it without thinking, stepping between her thighs, and she gasps against my mouth—a sound that goes straight to my spine.

“Aslan.” My name in her voice. Rough. Wanting.

I trail kisses down her jaw. Her neck. The hollow of her throat where her pulse hammers. She tastes like sage and herbs and something sweeter underneath—something uniquely her. Something I want to spend the rest of my life learning.

Her legs wrap around my hips. Her fingers dig into my shoulders. Every point of contact is electric.

“We should—” She gasps as my teeth graze her collarbone. “We should probably—talk about⁠—”

“Later.” I pull back just enough to meet her eyes. They’re dark. Dazed. Her lips are swollen from my kisses, her hair coming loose from its braid. I want to remember her exactly like this. “First we deal with the Preservers. And after...”

“After?”

“After, we have the rest of our lives to figure out what this is.”

She studies my face. Looking for doubt, maybe. Hesitation. Whatever she finds must satisfy her, because she nods slowly.

“After.” She pulls me down for one more kiss—brief, searing, a promise. “But for the record, I already know what this is.”

“What?”

Her smile is fierce. Certain. “Ours.”

Later, after the sun has set and the mist has turned to velvet darkness outside the windows, we lie tangled on her terrible couch.

Not the way I’ve spent the past week—her upstairs, me down here, twelve feet of air and denial between us. This is different. Her head on my chest, her body curved against mine, my arm around her shoulders. Shadow sleeps on the workbench nearby, his breathing easier than before. The crystals pulse their soft colors in the darkness.

“Tell me about Dorothea.” Her voice is quiet. Careful.

I lock in place. No one asks about Dorothea. Not anymore. The other alphas learned years ago that her name was a door that stayed closed.

But Leire isn’t other people. And maybe it’s time the door opened.

“She was a weather witch.” The words come slowly, rusty from disuse. “Gentle. Optimistic. The opposite of me in every way. She used to tease me about being too serious. Said I needed to learn to laugh at myself.”