“Sister!”
Mallow strode in with a traveler’s grin, brushing snow from his sleeves as if he hadn’t just walked into a brewing disaster. “There you are,” he said, pitching his tone loud enough to carry. “Been looking all over for you. Didn’t know you’d made it back already.”
He crossed the room in three quick strides, the movement easy but purposeful, as though greeting an old friend. Ben blinked as Mallow clapped a hand on his shoulder in a companionable gesture.
“Hope she’s not been bothering you,” Mallow said lightly. “She gets talkative when she’s had a drink or two.”
Ben looked from Mallow to Lain, confusion warring with lingering awe. “She’s – she’s one of them –”
“Pilgrims,” Mallow interrupted smoothly, still smiling. “Gods, don’t tell me she’s started preaching. I told you, Sister, save it for the holy folk.”
A few of the nearby patrons laughed. The tension cracked. Ben’s mouth closed, uncertain now, his courage ebbing in the noise.
Mallow leaned down, his voice pleasant. “Come on, love. Let’s get you upstairs before you fall asleep at someone’s table again.”
Lain managed a nod, dizzy with shame and gratitude and a weighty excitement. Mallow’s arm came around her shoulders, guiding her toward the stairs. To anyone watching, it looked like a sellsword humoring his drunken companion. But under his breath his tone had changed.
“What happened?” he asked quietly, not looking at her.
She couldn’t answer. Her entire universe of thought was focused on the arm he’d slung across her shoulders, the scent of cold air still clinging to his coat. The world narrowed to that single point of contact.
At the foot of the stairs, Mallow tightened his hold, firm enough that she felt the warning in it. “Next time,” he murmured, “you wait –”
She turned before he could finish, caught his face between her hands, and kissed him.
She was desperate, electric, Heat blazing through her like wildfire. The taste of him hit her tongue, cold air and salt and fruit. He froze, a startled breath against her mouth, but she pressed harder, her hands fisting in his collar.
For a heartbeat he didn’t move. Then his body answered in kind, the shock giving way to raw, human instinct. A rough and unguarded sound broke from him as his hand came up to reach inside her cowl. His fingertips brushed along the scales at her neck, but instead of flinching away as she’d done with Ben, she leaned into his touch, sensing his surprise, his curiosity, the way he liked the texture. Then he slid past the scales so his thumb could catch at the base of her hair. The Tuning surged like sunrise.
The world brightened to white.
She broke the kiss only long enough to breathe, her pupils wide and ink-black. “Please,” she whispered, though she didn’t know what she was asking for. Her tail coiled around her thigh under her slacks, trembling.
Mallow’s jaw tightened. He looked at her like a man staring down something holy and dangerous. “Lain,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t.”
But she was already tugging at him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve to drag him toward the stairs. He stumbled after her, half protesting, half laughing under his breath, the sounds deep and incredulous. “Saints, you’re –”
Whatever he meant to say vanished as she pulled him up the last steps. The narrow hallway was empty, lit by a single guttering lamp. She found their door and turned to him, breathless, eyes fever-bright. She handed him the key.
“Lain –”
“Open it,” she whispered.
He hesitated just long enough to look at her, and she knew what he was seeing; she was luminous with heat. His hand shook as he turned the key. The latch gave way with a soft click, and she dragged him inside.
The door slammed behind them. The fire from the hearth painted the room gold.
Lain reached for him again, wordless and hungry. Her hands gripped at his scalp, mouth seeking his. The kiss this time was deeper, slower. He responded before he could think, one hand at her waist, drawing her closer until her chest pressed against his. She could feel his heartbeat pounding at her ribs.
Her hands fumbled at the fastenings of his cloak. He caught her wrists, meaning to steady her, but the tremor that passed between them only made it worse, the pull of the Tuning like gravity.
“Lain,” he breathed, his forehead dropping to hers. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
“I do,” she said. “I can feel it. I can feel you.”
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He groaned softly. “This isn’t you.”
“It is,” she whispered, and pulled at his cloak again, fingers brushing the line of his throat. “It’s me, Mallow. It’s me.”
He let her have another kiss, one last, fierce press of lips. Then he tore himself back, breathing hard.
“Lain, stop,” he said, voice low and unsteady.
“I can’t. Please, I can’t –”
He caught her wrists and held them against her chest. “You can. You have to.”
“It’ll last for weeks, Mallow, I –”
He shook his head. “You’re not thinking clearly. You’ll hate yourself for this, come morning.”
“I won’t.” She tried to pull closer, but he wouldn’t let her. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand enough,” he said, low and tight. His grip gentled, thumbs brushing her pulse. “I’m not the one you want. It’s your blood talking, not you.”
She swallowed hard. Her throat ached. “You’re wrong.”
“Maybe,” he said softly, and that gentleness made him infuriatingly desirable. “But I won’t find out like this.”
Lain blinked up at him, disoriented. The world still shone, her heart thrumming through her palm. She let out a soft, pleading whine; the Heat wanted more. But his grip, his eyes – dark, steady, full of something that wasn’t anger – anchored her.
Steady the hands. Steady the jaw.
Slowly, her breathing eased. The light receded.
Mallow released her wrists tentatively. “You don’t even know what you’re asking, do you?”
She shook her head, voiceless. Steady the hands. Steady the jaw.
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Saints save me,” he muttered. “You really are trouble.”
Then, as if remembering why he came back at all, he drew a small glass vial from his coat, stoppered with wax and wrapped in string. The liquid inside was a murky green-brown. He held it up between them.
“Picked it up at the apothecary,” he said. His voice was all business. “Said it’s good for fever and agitation. Bark, licorice, mint. Closest thing I could find to what you described.”
Lain blinked at it, at him. She’d expected him to bring back herbs. This tincture must have cost more than that. “You went to the apothecary for me?”
“I went,” he said, “because I’d rather not have you tearing through every man in the valley before we cross the ridge.” He pressed the vial into her palm, careful not to touch her skin. “Drink it.”
She glanced at the little mirror. Her antlers had grown, just a little, but she could see the fresh velvet at the base, the length of a fingernail.
She nodded, chastened. The glass was warm from his pocket. Before she pulled out the stopper, she paused, and closed her eyes. She recalled the taste of the stew. The sounds rolling from the hills. The delicious bite of wind and the firm hand of Heat that held all of her senses to the light.
She pulled out the stopper and took a careful sip.
The taste was bitter and sharp, with an afterburn of mint that made her eyes water.
Mallow watched until she finished, then nodded once. “Good. Maybe it’ll cool your blood a little.”
That warm haze made her eyes droop, and all at once the last two days of hurt and dismay flooded into her body as if the Heat had been a shield against her weaknesses. She sat hard on her bed, but not before sliding her tail free of her slacks so it could flop listlessly across her lap.
He turned away, shrugging off his coat, his tone gentling only slightly. “Get some rest, Little Hooves.”
“I can’t promise I’ll sleep.”
“You will,” he said, his tone casual as he kicked off his boots. “You’re exhausted.”
He crossed to his own bed, lowered himself onto it, and stretched out with a sigh. “I’ll keep watch awhile. Just in case.”
“In case of what?”
He smiled without opening his eyes. “You, mostly. Three weeks, you said?”
“Yes.”
He gave a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Saints preserve me.”
Lain lay back, staring at the ceiling. She could still feel the ghost of the warmth he’d left on her mouth, but all the joy that had been hers was fading into something flat, something powerless and empty.
Her last thought before sleep was the memory of his hand at the back of her neck, neither cruel nor possessive, only steady. As if he were holding her to keep her from falling apart.
Lain heard the bell of Saint Fillan ringing for the dawn, and she sat up just in time for the door of her cell to close.
Tanel entered the near-dark. She couldn’t see him clearly, but she’d know his scent anywhere: cedar oil and ash, clinging to his robes. He sat beside her, his voice soft as the hush before prayer. His hand came to rest against her hair, smoothing it back, his fingers tracing the curve of her ear.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured. “Poor thing. So much weight for one so small.”
His touch lingered, thumb brushing the velvet edge of her ear until her ear flicked beneath the contact, a tender, instinctive shiver. The warmth of it spread down her spine, coiling along her tail.
“Shh,” he said, leaning close enough that his breath stirred the fur at her temple. “You were made for devotion, Lain. Don’t forget what that means.”
She opened her mouth to answer, but no words came. He smiled faintly, as if her silence pleased him. “Such faith,” he whispered. “Such beautiful restraint. That’s what the Dagorlind love most in you. Purity. Devotion.”
His thumb stroked behind her ear again, tender, almost reverent. His face came close, and she knew she should not move, that she should be very still, and prove her restraint. He nuzzled against her face, then kissed her jaw.
“You must remain untouched, Sister Lain,” he said. His one hand continued its gentle exploration of her ear, and the other slid behind her, to find the base of her tail, and follow its sensitive scales.
“Do you understand?” he breathed at her neck.
She nodded, breath catching.
“Good,” he said, and let his hand drift higher, to the base of her antlers. “Then offer it. Offer everything.”
The pressure there turned hot, sweetening –
Lain gasped awake, one hand coiled in the tender velvet of her antler. The spot throbbed faintly, echoing the phantom of Tanel’s touch. For a long moment she couldn’t breathe. The words clung to her. Remain untouched. But her body didn’t feel untouched. It felt defiant.
The tincture wasn’t working. Not as well as Tanel’s had.
The antler felt wonderful beneath her palm, sensitive and needful. She didn’t bother opening her eyes. She ran her fingers up and down the bone, the places where a tine was beginning to emerge, the whole length still soft with velvet. As she touched, a soft ache bloomed at her center. She brought a hand down. If she could just –
Mallow cleared his throat conspicuously. “Morning, Sister. Would you like some privacy?”