Chapter 15
Balar hustled down the path, regretting his decision not to fly.
Yes, winging through the rain was never pleasant, but it was far faster than sprinting down a muddy path.
Storm clouds darkened the sky above, and wind rattled the great trees.
All sensible creatures had stayed in their dens and burrows that morning, but not him.
The rain beat against his face and shoulders, his oilskin cloak already overwhelmed.
Cold rivulets found their way under the collar, soaking the back of his neck.
His breath puffed in misty clouds in front of him as he jogged; he would’ve gone faster but had already learned that speed meant slipping.
His brothers had taken one look at the weather—“The first big one,” Diar had called it—and as one had shaken their heads when he asked whether they were coming today.
“Don’t go, seska,” Soren had said, even as Balar donned his cloak. “She’s sensible, she’ll have everything she needs.”
It was the wrong thing to say, implying that Imogen didn’t need him.
That wasn’t what Soren meant, he knew that, but Balar was in no mood to be reasonable.
Ever since they’d come across that trap several days ago, he’d had an insistent itch below his fur.
The continued threat to his mate, combined with finally getting a long, deep taste of her, had made Balar an impatient, aching male.
Something’s happening, he felt. It was more than the turning seasons. There was a change in the wind and in Imogen, too, he could feel it.
He couldn’t miss a day with her. Certainly not days. He needed to keep this spark alive, stoke it into a flame.
And so Balar had set out, his brothers watching on from under their blankets like a bunch of ninnies.
The rain and wind had certainly made him earn this time with her. Balar grimaced at the feel of mud between his toe pads, the unpleasant squish making each step precarious.
His relief was total when he trotted into her meadow, the wet grass squelching beneath his feet. As he approached her door, he shook off the worst of the rain and mud, longing for the warmth peeking through the wooden shutters.
Keeping his hood low, he rapped his knuckles on the door.
It was a long few moments before it opened a crack, revealing a frowning, baffled Imogen. Or a sliver of her, at least.
“Balar! I didn’t think—what’re you doing here?”
“Come to see you, of course.”
“It’s storming outside!”
“Don’t I know it.” He peeked over her head at the warm interior of the cottage. “It wasn’t so bad when I started out,” he fibbed.
Imogen pursed her lips, perhaps not believing him, but then opened the door wider. “You’re soaked,” she noted as he stepped for the first time inside the cottage.
“And muddy,” he said, wincing as the muck ran from his legs onto the front mat.
Imogen winced, too. “Stay there.”
Shadow sat nearby to keep him company as their mistress hurried about, collecting a jug of water and a towel. He’d already begun to peel off his cloak by the time she returned.
“You can hang that up on the peg.” Taking a look at his shirt and kilt beneath, she added, “The rest should probably dry by the fire.”
“Keen to see all of me, are you, kigara?” he teased.
Imogen’s face heated, and she shoved the jug and towel at him before scurrying deeper into the cottage. Balar chuckled as he got to work on his clothing and fur, sopping up the worst of the water and wiping off the mud.
Something caught his peripheral eye, and he looked up in time to see an unfolded blanket floating toward him, Imogen’s fingers clenched along the top hem. It was all of her he could see, and the sight sent him howling with laughter.
“You can use this until your clothes are dry,” she muttered.
“No need to spoil me,” Balar declared, “I’m perfectly comfortable bare.”
“You might be, but I’m not.”
Balar snorted with laughter again, only for the blanket to go sailing over him to cover his head. He was still chuckling to himself when his clothes fell to the floor and he wrapped the blanket around his hips.
Imogen had ensconced herself in the kitchen, her back turned to him, muttering under her breath.
Balar’s lips twitched even as he tried to contain his laughter.
What would she do if the blanket should happen to slip?
An intriguing thought—but perhaps he should let her settle first. He’d just gotten here, he didn’t want to be thrown out into the weather again.
Balar ensured he made plenty of noise for her to track as he made his way further into the cottage. He found a few pegs set into the side of the mantle and hung his shirt and kilt from them. With that done, it was time to get a proper look at her dwelling.
It smelled of her. Like lavender and sweetness and competence with a dash of warmth and herbs. It was a scent unique to her, one he could only find here in her home.
It seemed he’d interrupted her during a task; jars had been spread upon the kitchen table, with boards and knives set out with various fruits and vegetables.
Two pots steamed on the warm stove, and he could smell the yeasty scent of bread baking in the oven.
The cottage was warm and cozy thanks to the bustling kitchen and merry fire in the main fireplace.
Imogen herself had piled her hair atop her head, and for the first time, he found her in long skirts. He smiled to himself to see she wore no shoes, only thick socks.
“It’s the first time I’ve seen you in skirts,” he remarked, eager for her attention now that he was out of his wet things.
Imogen reluctantly glanced over her shoulder at him. Her eyes snagged on where he held the excess blanket at his hip.
“I can find you another blanket.”
“No need, I’m perfectly content.”
Her lips pursed, as if she kept in what she meant to say, and turned back to her task. Trying not to pout, Balar eased closer. He caught a draping length of her skirt with a claw, pulling it away from her legs before letting it fall again.
“You don’t seem to wear skirts often.”
“I don’t, no. Usually just when it’s cold.” She turned to him, her mouth open and ready to say something else, but her attention again caught on his bare abdomen. Her nostrils flared, and Balar had to try very hard not to preen.
If she keeps looking there, I’ll get stiff for sure.
He could practically see her mind turning over a thought, and with a snap of her fingers, Imogen bustled around the kitchen, opening a chest on the far side and pulling out an old apron.
It was smaller than the one she wore, which covered her chest and torso, protecting her shirt and upper skirts.
Unravelling the side ribbons, she marched up to him, wound her arms around his middle, and tied the apron at the small of his back.
Balar couldn’t decide whether to laugh or purr.
A noise between the two caught in his throat, his tail thrashing back and forth to feel her strong arms around him.
It wasn’t quite an embrace, and she had the cutest little frown on her face as she concentrated on tying the knot blind, but she was so close.
He couldn’t resist dipping his head to take a deep pull of her scent from the fragrant knot of her hair, gathered atop her head. So enamored he was, he hardly felt her tug the blanket from his grip. Her arms were moving around him, but he didn’t really care.
Enket at inan, she smelled so good. That itching need just below his skin ached something fierce, and his turuk prowled inside his chest.
In a moment, he would grab her up in his arms and plunder the hot well of her mouth. Whatever she did at the table could wait an hour or two as he pleasured her, proving again and again and maybe once more what a good, thorough mate he could be.
Instead, the blanket came round him again, pulled taut about his shoulders. He looked down just in time to see her pin the sides of the blanket together under his chin into something of a cape.
Her work done, she stepped back to survey it, finally nodding in approval. “That will do.”
Balar felt a bit silly, honestly, but he wouldn’t complain. He was a patient hunter.
In the end, Imogen decided that if he was going to stay and be a bother while waiting out the storm, he might as well be useful. Balar happily let her put him to work.
When he’d knocked on her door, he’d caught her in the middle of making a hearty stew and loaf of bread for supper, as well as preparing to can various fruits and vegetables.
As the stew simmered and the bread cooled, he chopped and filled various jars, learning more than he knew possible about jamming and pickling.
Over the course of the morning, they filled dozens of jars with treats for later. It filled him with satisfaction to know that he could help his kigara in this way; the work would sustain her throughout the coming winter.
Not that she need worry about going cold or hungry, of course. He’d never allow her to even flirt with either.
She was meant to flirt only with him.
Although, goddess bless her, he wasn’t sure his sah-zenda knew the meaning of the word. It wasn’t that she was guileless, per se—she just genuinely didn’t seem to know how. Or didn’t realize that he was flirting with her quite obviously at every opportunity.
It was also clear she was unused to sharing her cottage with anyone but Shadow.
More than once, she bumped into him while maneuvering around the kitchen.
It was a good opportunity to catch her waist in his hand, with the excuse of steadying her, but Imogen would merely mutter an apology, her blush nearly as pink as her birthmark.
Balar soon learned to anticipate her movements, stepping out of her way before she could crash into him. Oh, to be sure, by the time he got good at their little dance, there were opportunities when he stepped further into her way, if only to feel her for a moment.
What could he say—he was a greedy male.