Chapter 14
Soren’s ears hadn’t stopped ringing since the night before. Was that normal? It couldn’t be healthy. Had he burst his own eardrums roaring through the greatest, most intense orgasm of his life?
Kud, how did he explain that to anyone, let alone a healer. He dared not go to Sofie Brádaigh. She’ll know.
Without school being in session that next day, the first day of Soren’s brand new existence, there was no excuse to go there and see Maeve. He didn’t know what to do with himself, unable to sleep, unable to think.
His head had been too full of sensorial memories, his nose too full of her scent. Enket at inan, she was just as soft and sweet as he’d imagined.
Halfway through his sleepless night, he’d taken his aching cock in hand, if only to press the lingering trace of her touch into his skin.
But it wasn’t the same. His rough paw pads were nothing to Maeve’s sweet grasp, the way her lithe fingers curled around him and stroked him into oblivion.
Soren hadn’t even bothered, his cock staying up with the rest of him throughout the night.
He was just as useless that morning, wandering around Danann without aim. He stood for a long time at the central communal fire, where many took a morning mug of grog and chatted as the sun peeked through the trees.
Briseis, the usual maker and distributor of the grog, looked at him with concern as she handed him his mug. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“She likes you, Soren. It’s plain to see.”
Maeve’s words echoed in his mind, and he couldn’t look at the dragoness. Ibás, he’d suspected that was true, had even nurtured his own affection for Briseis, but now…
You don’t have to be alone, you choose to be.
He suspected Maeve might be right about that, too, but he didn’t quite want to believe it.
Well, not all of him.
His turuk was thrilled. And smug.
She is a fine mate, it crowed. She likes us very much.
The moment Maeve had stared down his turuk, Soren knew he’d follow her anywhere that night. She didn’t cower or quiver; instead, took him in hand, bold as could be.
He shouldn’t have expected anything less from someone as confident as Maeve.
Although, he didn’t think it entirely ridiculous for him to doubt she’d want him in return. She was still closer in age to Kiri than Soren; she was still assured, beautiful, and ambitious; she still planned to leave.
That soured his turuk’s mood.
Well, good. You ought not forget.
Make her stay! the turuk demanded.
I can’t. I won’t. Soren would never force his own kigara to sacrifice for him, couldn’t dream of burdening her with lost dreams and himself with the guilt of it.
Convince her. The turuk was adamant. It’d had a taste and now wanted more.
An addiction. That’s what this feels like.
Convince her to stay, the turuk growled again, undeterred, unsympathetic.
I wouldn’t know how. He wasn’t even sure how he’d managed to receive her touch last night. Even though he’d gone through the memories of every word, every breath a dozen times already, he was still hazy in how exactly her mood had turned.
He wasn’t convinced it hadn’t been a dream, conjured by his increasingly desperate turuk. That would certainly make more sense.
Something waved in front of Soren’s face, and he startled, blinking as if he’d just come awake. Balar stood before him, waving his paw in Soren’s face, a concerned Briseis standing behind him.
“He’s been like this all morning,” the dragoness said.
Balar nodded gravely. “I’m glad you sent for me. This is strange indeed.”
Cup still in hand, Soren was hustled back to his cabin, where he found his brothers and Imogen crowded inside, preparing…luncheon. Kud, was it really afternoon already?
“At least he can still walk,” Akila teased.
“People were starting to place bets on how long he’d stay standing there,” said Diar.
“Be nice,” Imogen scolded. “He’s clearly ill.”
Was he? Soren didn’t feel ill. No cough or fever. Well, he supposed he did feel feverish, but his overheating was in decidedly…specific areas. He was also certainly wool-headed; any thought that wasn’t about Maeve was long in coming.
Soren’s confusion eventually caused a frown as he watched his family bustle about his little cabin. No one said anything of import, really, and no one would quite look him in the eye.
Finally, he was sat at the small table, a pewter plate full of sausages, cheese, and roasted potatoes put before him. Stomach rumbling, Soren tucked in dutifully, ignoring how everyone watched him eat.
It was Imogen who took the seat across from him, her face filled with concern. She folded her hands neatly on the tabletop, leaning forward when she asked, “Are you all right, Soren?”
Honestly, he didn’t know. He wanted to say, better than ever, but doubted he’d be believed.
“Just fine,” he said after swallowing his potatoes.
Imogen clearly didn’t believe him. “Are mantii affected negatively when they don’t claim a kigara? I’ve heard it can actually drive dragons mad to deny their mate.”
“It’s always more dramatic with the dragons,” Akila sighed.
“I’ve heard the body can ache if a kigara isn’t claimed,” said Balar. “There’s the possibility of unseasonal molting, too, and even headaches, chest pains, and losing all one’s claws.”
Imogen loosed an eep of alarm. “That’s awful!”
Balar nodded gravely. “Just think what else you almost put me through, urisá. Thankfully you are kind and spared me the worst suffering.”
“We suffered plenty,” Diar muttered to Akila, who snorted.
Lips pursed, Imogen leaned back in her chair, arms crossing. She clearly wasn’t amused or sympathetic to Balar’s almost-suffering.
“My love, this isn’t about you.”
“Of course it is, nitlam,” Balar laughed. Slapping Soren on the shoulder and squeezing, he leaned down to say, “One of my pride making a nuisance of himself reflects poorly on me.”
Soren and his younger brothers unanimously rolled their eyes.
“Stop that,” said Balar, ears flattening. “It’s annoying enough when Kiri does it.”
Ignoring their snickers, Balar splayed his paws on the tabletop, leaning down over Soren. The table creaked beneath his weight, and Soren lifted his plate just to be safe.
He stared into Balar’s searching gaze as he chewed his last bite of sausage. His turuk paced agitatedly, not liking the direct stare of an older, bigger male.
No fighting in front of Imogen, he reminded the beast. It distressed her.
“We’re just worried for you, Soren,” interrupted Imogen, peering around Balar’s oversized mane to get a look at him. “Isn’t there some way to convince Maeve? I’m sure she’d love you if she got to know you.”
Soren blushed at her words, harder at Diar and Akila’s snickering, and deeper still when she turned to pin the two of them with a cool glare.
“Have you considered making off with her to somewhere secluded?” suggested Balar. “I hear it’s the orcs’ favored strategy.”
Imogen whirled around in her seat. “Absolutely not!”
“These are desperate times, urisá. He must try everything.”
“No kidnapping!”
“But it—”
“Maeve and I are…talking,” Soren muttered.
His admission brought the overcrowded cabin to utter silence.
“Talking,” Akila said after a moment. “That’s all you’re doing on those walks?”
It was Soren’s turn to glare at him, but it was Imogen who said, “He’s being a gentleman. Something you two could learn from.”
Diar’s snort of laughter wasn’t helpful.
He wouldn’t laugh if he knew, his turuk seethed.
Probably not, but Soren didn’t intend to tell them about last night. They’d have questions, and, worse, suggestions—but Soren didn’t understand it himself. And how Maeve touched him, what she whispered to him as he came…those were things only for him. We don’t share.
“We’re talking,” Soren reiterated, “so please let us be. Don’t meddle.”
“Standing around town in a daze doesn’t make us optimistic about your chances,” Akila said.
“You need all the help you can get,” Diar agreed.
The smallest growl escaped Soren’s mouth, his upper lip curling to reveal a fang. Diar stilled, recognizing a threat when he saw it.
Balar held up his paws. “All right, all right, Soren. We won’t interfere. Yet.”
“At all,” Soren insisted, glaring up at his seska-ab.
But Balar just grinned in that infernal way of his, smug and noncommittal. Imogen sighed, the smack of her palm over her face resounding.
Soren avoided his family and their unhelpful suggestions—he was going to kill Diar if he pantomimed a phallus entering a cunt again—by throwing himself into work on Ulmo’s pub.
It was nearly finished, mostly just polishing and moving furniture around.
Still, it offered distraction, which was what Soren needed most.
By the next morning, he was aching to see Maeve. He rushed Kiri through breakfast, herding him along to school earlier than usual.
The impudent cub had the gall to slump back against Soren, nearly becoming dead weight to slow their pace. Kiri snickered over his own folly, laughing harder when Soren reminded him a true noble hunter never let his wings drag on the ground.
“We both know you’re the hunter, seska,” Kiri laughed.
Huffing in annoyance, Soren bent to drive his shoulder into Kiri and tossed the whelp over his back.
Kiri let out an undignified yelp, flailing like a fish as Soren trudged down the hill with him.
Kiri thrashed his legs and arms but couldn’t get a good angle or grip, leaving Soren free to jostle him and scratch the undersides of his knees in merciless tickles.
Hoarse, gasping laughs and groans reached Soren’s ears, making him grin.
Kiri needed to be reminded he was never too old for Soren to tease. He knew all of Kiri’s ticklish spots.
He did, however, let Kiri slip right off into an ungainly heap the moment he spotted Maeve climbing the steps up to the schoolhouse door.
Kiri’s groans were lost on him as he hurried to ask, “Miss Maeve, can we speak?”
She was somehow even more beautiful that morning, her cheeks rosy, her hair soft and glossy.
He could smell that combination of her sweet soap and some feminine scent uniquely hers—it drove him to distraction.
He nearly shuddered as her scent filled his lungs and memories of that night flooded his mind.
Giggles and little voices teased his ears, more students gathering to laugh at Kiri making a fool of himself rolling around in the grass.
A beatific smile adorned her lush lips, and after looking about, she leaned to press a gentle kiss on his cheek. “Later. I promise.”
Enket at inan, his heart couldn’t take her sweetness.
She left him blushing on the steps, gently touching his cheek as if he could preserve the sensation of her lips.
Except, when they did talk later on their now customary walk in the evening, it wasn’t about anything specific or important.
Maeve chattered gayly about the students, the weather, the butterflies they’d observed after luncheon. She seemed to talk about everything but that night.
Soren, however, didn’t know how to bring it up. Especially not with how she’d taken his arm as they walked, as though he truly was a gentleman escorting a lady home. His mind kept turning over the simple touch, how easy and fluid she’d been in initiating the contact.
So she didn’t mind touching him.
She wasn’t in a distracted mood anymore, either. That was…good.
If anything, she was lighter, brighter. Her eyes sparkled even in the lilac gloaming, her smiles wide and her voice cheerful.
He didn’t think that night was a dream. Would she be linking arms with him if it was? Not likely. Did she not wish to discuss it? She didn’t seem embarrassed or regretful.
No, if anything, she seemed to be…flirting with him?
Surely not.
His denial was immediate and vehement.
Except, when they reached the Brádaigh property, her touch lingered on his arm. When she looked up at him, her gaze had gone almost sultry, lids low as she smiled sweetly at him. Her gentle fingers petted his forearm, and those sparkling eyes kept him riveted.
Did she want something from him? Should he lean down and…kiss her?
He could almost hear himself swallowing in trepidation.
Ibás, he didn’t know how to kiss. There wasn’t time to ask Balar.
Her smiling lips curled, as though she were pleased or even smug about what she saw. To his astonishment, she pressed on his forearm, using it to push herself to her tiptoes and pull him down to meet her.
“Goodnight then, Mister Soren,” she whispered to him before kissing his cheek again. Except, this kiss was so near his mouth, she caught just the corner.
And on her way back down to her heels, she stopped to kiss the underside of his chin, and the center of his chest, too, right where his fur disappeared under the collar of his shirt. When she did lean back, it was with a lingering sigh.
“Goodnight, Miss Maeve,” he managed to croak.
Another soft smile that wiped away all thought and reason, and then she stepped back, the velvet darkness of dusk welcoming her.
But she stopped before becoming totally obscured. Turning, she waved at him, the amber glow of her lantern catching on her smile.
Enket at inan, he was doomed.