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My cheeks warm. “He may have given up the chase. I haven’t seen him, even in the market.”
Azmar shakes his head. “I don’t know him well, but I don’t trust him.”
Unease bubbles in me, less about Grodd than about the fact that there is one bed in this room. I’ve never shared a bed with a man, not even Andru. As I cross over to Azmar, thoughts of that bed—of what we could do in that bed—flit through my mind, bringing heat to my skin. But I remind myself that trollis only mate with bloodstones. Between Unach’s and Perg’s talk of it, that rule appears strict.
Azmar stands when I near and clasps my shoulders in his emerald hands. I look up at him and place my open hands on his chest.
“I was worried you regretted me.” It comes to mind, after I’ve spoken, that the name of the trollis god was embedded in my words.
“Not you, Lark.”
I love the way he says my name. I’m so used to the trollis accent now; even some of the humans in the enclave have assimilated it. But I always notice it when Azmar says my name. The roundness of the vowel, the distinction of theK.
I lean into him, my bones humming with the beat of his heart. “Does that mean I don’t have to sleep on the floor?”
He responds by closing the space between our mouths. I clasp his jaw and invite him deeper, rolling his bottom lip between mine. A soft growl reverberates in his neck. I laugh softly, unrestrained glee building in my muscles, my blood. I shift one hand and run the pad of my thumb up one of his tusks. I’ve always wanted to touch them. Strange that I’d once thought them so inhuman. Now they are simply Azmar.
He pulls back. “Am I so humorous?”
I grin. “You can be.” I reach forward to pluck one of the pencils from his bound hair before waving it between our faces.
“Hmm.” He takes the pencil, throws it on the floor, and scoops me into his arms. I muffle a shriek of surprise and grasp his shoulders, unable to get a good hold before he plops me onto the bed. It’s a standard size for a trollis, but I won’t take up much space comparatively.
He hovers over me, a mischievousness in his eyes that I’ve seen only in rare glimpses before. But we’re alone, with no passersby or sisters to walk in on us. Here, now, neither of us needs to be guarded.
My chest fills to bursting.
Azmar smooths hair from my forehead. “You do not need to sleep on the floor.” He grabs my bag, pulls its strap over my head, and drops it beside the chimney. Then he settles onto his side, facing me, his head propped up on the heel of his hand.
“Oh good.” I curl into him. “Because it is very cold, and you are very warm.”
His free hand glides up my back, over my shoulder, and down my arm, the touch modest and unexpecting. “You’re so small,” he murmurs.
I roll my eyes. “I am very tall for a human, you know. Taller even than most men.”
“Hmm.” He tucks my head under his. I press my forehead into the base of his neck, placing a kiss on the spot where his collar dips. Hebreathes into my hair and wraps a thick arm around me. Its weight is assuring and delightful. I’m sure sleep will never come, but it does, and remarkably quickly.
Because for the first time in my life, the fear dissipates entirely. I am completely and utterly safe.
Chapter 20
I’m slow to wake in the morning, my head flitting between half dreams, my limbs clinging to drowsiness. Fur tickles my skin, and I blink awake to an unfamiliar ceiling lit with a ray of sunlight from a narrow window. But Azmar is not beside me. I drown alone in a bed made for a trollis.
Sitting up, I stifle a yawn and smooth back my hair. Azmar is leaning over that little square of kitchen counter, reading a sheaf of papers, a half-eaten floral disk in one hand, a pencil in the other. His shirt stretches nicely over his shoulders, the seam parting for the bony nubs to protrude.
I get to admire him only for a second. Despite his position as an engineer, Azmar trained as a soldier, and I was hardly stealthy in rising. He sets down breakfast and pencil and turns my way, his topaz eyes warm, his belt already strapped to his hips, his feet shod.
Panic floods me. “What time is it?” If I’m not at Unach’s to prepare breakfast, she’ll ask where I am—
He reads my mind. “Don’t worry about Unach. With an evening shift, she’s likely still sleeping.” He crosses the room, glancing out the window. “Do you report today?”
I nod, sweeping the mess of my hair into a tail over my shoulder. “Not until this afternoon.”
He leans against the side of the bed, arms folded. “Maybe you can gauge the risk of my showing my face again.”
I run my thumb over his knuckles. “You know she fights it because she loves you, not because she doesn’t want to search for a new roommate.”
“Don’t say that where she can hear.” He reaches over and plucks my hair from my hand and throws it back over my shoulder, undoing my efforts to make it neat. “The wildness suits you.”
