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I pout at him. “Don’t start telling me Gwen Frost is right about something. I’ll get jealous.”
Cyran leans over the tray of food and presses a gentle kiss to my lips, then hands me a skewered meat.
I take it from him and, still smiling, bite into it. It’s a bit gamey, but it’s salty and tastes good and reminds me of venison that my grandfather used to preserve after deer hunting every fall.
“I’ll have to make you jealous more often. It gives me a good reason to practice kissing you.”
“You don’t need an excuse,” I say, blushing.
The whole exchange feels so homey that it makes my heart ache.
When we’ve devoured everything on the tray including the strange-looking cheese that ends up tasting like something close to aged Swiss, Cyran takes my hand, and I smile.
I wonder if he’s going to take me back to the bed, which I would very much like.
Instead, he guides me to sit on the floor in front of the fire, where he proceeds to spoon-feed me a sweet, custard-like substance. There’s a big bowl of it, and only one spoon for us to share. Okay. I’m good with this. We did swap spit and lots of other bodily fluids already. It tastes like vanilla and cinnamon and has a pleasant enough texture.
“Interesting dessert.”
“This is the tradition. After an elf feeds his mate, they return to the marriage bed to continue breeding.”
He holds the spoon out to me, but this time I don’t take it. Instead my mind is reeling as I unpack these phrases.
“Mate,” I repeat. “You keep saying that, and now I’m starting to think you mean it.”
“Yes,” he answers, his top lip curling up on one side.
Gosh, he’s beautiful. But I need answers. “Tradition…breeding…marriage bed?”
Cyran blinks down at me. “Yes?”
“What’s happening here?”
“We’re married now, my love. You are my mate, and now we are fulfilling the ancient tradition of carrying on the species.”
I choke on the rich dessert.
ChapterFourteen
Cyran
Ivy is so delicate, even when eating food. She chokes easily, gets lost easily. What else will I have to protect her from?
“I will have to keep a better eye on you from now on,” I say, rubbing her back as she slurps down her tea once her throat is clear of the dessert she choked on. “I’ve nearly lost you too many times now.”
To my surprise, she gets up and stands behind the cozy chair. I don’t like the look on her face. She’s confused. Upset.
“Ivy?”
“What in the H.E. double-hockey-sticks are you talking about? We’re not married!”
“I know marriage rituals where you are from may be different, but I assure you we are joined forever now. We have completed the ritual.”
She shakes her head. “No, we had great sex. Awesome sex. Sex that will be forever burned into my brain. That’s not wedding bells where I come from.”
I do not understand why my wife is suddenly so angry.
“Did you not wish to marry me?”
