Chapter 15 #2
Despite her apparent nerves, Balar found that his jumpy mate could still be wooed into conversation.
And even games. After a hearty lunch of stew and fresh bread, they took a break from chores to play dice.
Imogen didn’t have any other playing pieces or cards, so it was really a game to see who could roll the highest number.
It didn’t take long for them to invent their own game, assigning meaning to each number. Both of them added rules that would benefit their standing in the game, and by the time they finished, Balar thought it one of the more complicated games he’d ever played.
After that, Imogen used the opportunity of having an extra pair of hands to brush out Shadow. In the anteroom of the cottage, Balar held the dog by the shoulders as Imogen passed the brush over Shadow, collecting the last of his shed coat.
Shadow glared at Balar in betrayal the entire time.
“No one enjoys the molt, rusa, but you must bear it bravely,” he informed Shadow.
Imogen snickered from the dog’s rear end. “Don’t tell me manticores shed, too.”
“We do indeed. Usually twice a year, but it is warmer in the savannahs than here. We also molt—usually in spring. It’s unpleasant.”
“Oh joy, a bunch of itchy, grumpy manticores to look forward to.” Imogen straightened and popped her hip, letting the brush loll in her loose grip as she said, “Although, I’ll bet it’s a funny sight.”
Balar smiled. She was considering what it would be like to see them molt in spring.
“You must promise me now that you won’t laugh too much. At least not at me,” he said. “A manticore’s pride is most vulnerable during the molt.”
“I’ll try my best,” she said, and although she did so absently, focusing again on Shadow, Balar was thrilled.
She’s thinking of the future. Our future.
With that done, Imogen found other chores for them to do.
He’d no idea there were so many ways to make so many different breads, but Imogen showed him how to prepare hearty loaves, sweet milk breads, and even a savory plaited roll.
Various loaves required different lengths of proving, and so it was an artful dance, leaving one to rise, putting another in the oven, and pulling out the first.
As they measured and kneaded and plaited, they played a little game she said she’d play with her father as they worked the family farm.
It was a rhyming game, passing words back and forth.
Balar took to it, although Imogen said it was cheating to use his mantii words.
He declared it wasn’t, and they kept a spirited debate as one loaf came out and another went into the oven.
She kept them busy throughout the afternoon as the rain continued to patter on the roof. It didn’t sound as though it would relent, and, to himself, Balar prayed for it to continue. Even worsen.
Let me stay here with her.
The closer it got to nightfall, the greater his hopes became.
After dinner, Imogen finally relented. Sinking into the armchair, she sighed happily, a sound that went straight to Balar’s cock. Ibás, he wanted to hear her sigh like that as he sank inside her.
She rested her elbow on the chair arm and her cheek on her fist, her languid gaze soft in the glow of the fireplace.
Balar settled across from her on the padded bench, doing his best to make himself comfortable.
He’d long since abandoned the blanket, too warm as he worked and not wanting to soil it with berry juice or flour paste.
He’d caught her peeking at his backside more than once, and Balar had smiled smugly to himself.
She may be prickly, but she isn’t immune.
They spent a pleasant few moments in companionable silence, listening to the hearty crackle of the fire. Balar stole peeks out the kitchen window, willing the sky to hurry up and darken completely.
“What do you like to do on evenings like this?” he asked softly.
Imogen hummed in consideration, another soft sound that he felt in his cock.
“Sometimes I knit. Or read. Something quiet, so I can listen to the rain.”
“You have many books,” he said.
She smiled fondly at her bookshelf. “Oh, these aren’t even half of what my mother had. Just what I brought from the old house. My favorites.”
Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, Balar purred, “Would you read to me?”
Her brows rose nearly to her hairline. “W-what?”
“I enjoy stories but cannot read your language. I would enjoy hearing your voice.”
She stared at him for a long while, long enough that he was sure she’d deny him.
To his surprise, and pride, she eventually nodded hesitantly. Moving to retrieve a book, she settled with it in her armchair. Opening the cover, she ran her hand lovingly over the first page, a tender touch that tugged at Balar’s heart.
“My mother would read these stories to Neomi and me when we were little,” she said, her expression the softest Balar had ever seen it.
I want her to look at me that way, he thought fiercely.
Carefully flipping through the first few pages, she settled on one and began to read.
Shadow trotted over from his dish in the kitchen to sit beside Balar, who’d apparently been forgiven after he snuck the dog a few more pieces of meat. Together, they listened to Imogen’s lilting voice as she read them a story.
It was one of those romantic stories that humans seemed to prefer, one set in a time no one quite remembers but still feels familiar.
Interestingly, it was a tale of a harpy and a human knight.
Balar listened intently to how the human and otherly fell in love, the trials and tribulations of that love, and even how their love produced a winged child.
It was a lovely story, full of daring and declarations of love. Listening to his mate’s sweet voice speak of love between human and otherly only enflamed him, that need inside him growing into something vast and yet…tender.
Balar had never felt it before.
How was it his heart hurt, physically ached in his chest, yet the feeling was so utterly sweet?
She was magic, his Imogen. That’s what this had to mean.
When her tale came to an end, her silence left a ringing echo that Balar was loath to fill. He and Shadow quietly admired Imogen as she turned the pages of the book, her expression almost dreamy.
Balar glanced outside and had to bite back his grin.
“It’s gotten late.”
Imogen looked up, seeming surprised. She twisted to look out the kitchen window, finding it an inky black. Overhead, the rain pounded a steady rhythm against the roof.
Balar took pains to ensure his face remained open and calm as he looked at her.
Let me stay with you, he begged her.
Imogen slowly turned back around in her chair, taking a moment to consider.
“You can stay the night…if you want.”
Biting back his roar, he said, “Thank you, urisá, you are very gracious.”
“Do you think you’ll fit on the sofa?”
Balar held his mild smile with force of will. Of course she wouldn’t give in so easily. “Don’t worry over me. I’ll be fine.”
Imogen nodded, her gaze falling to the book. She seemed discomfited, the softness of before gone.
He didn’t like that.
“Won’t you read another? I’m not quite tired.”
“All right,” she murmured. Clearing her throat, and without looking at him, she found another story to read.
Balar settled back against the cushions, his exhale rushing out of him. Shadow yawned and curled up at Imogen’s feet.
It was such a warm, domestic scene they all made. Balar could just imagine many more nights like this, tucked away with his kigara, warm beside the fire. Of course, in his imaginings, she was in his lap rather than her chair, and his hand would be up her skirt so he could pet her soft skin.
Yes, that was just how he wished to spend every evening from now on.
Her sweet voice in his ear. Her strong body pressed against his.
They would spend pleasant hours together just like that, until finally, when the hour drew late, he would press a kiss to her temple.
Won’t you come to bed? he’d croon, his hand running up and down her thigh in gentle persuasion.
When she finally nodded yes, he’d take her mouth in a gentle but passionate kiss. He wouldn’t need to look as he lifted her in his arms and carried her off to bed. There, they would make love, keeping time to the percussive rain as the fires slowly died.
So strong were his visions and desires, he was almost startled when Imogen finished her story. He couldn’t say he remembered any of it, taken as he’d been with his own fantasies.
They spent another hour or so in companionable silence, listening to the storm outside.
As Imogen’s lids grew heavier, Balar’s need became sharper. He could see how tired she was, yet his own body hummed with need. Just a word from her, a look, and he would be beside her. Ready, willing.
Let me, urisá. Give yourself to me.
His plea was a drumbeat in his head, so loud, he thought she surely must hear.
Balar’s heart was racing nearly as fast as his thoughts by the time Imogen drew in a long breath, stretched her arms above her head, and stood.
“I’m going to bed,” she told him quietly. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
He watched her, unable to help that he likely looked predatory. He felt predatory then, seeing her hover in the threshold to her bedchamber.
Trying to keep the worst of the growl from his voice, he assured her, “I’ll be just fine. I have the fire and the blanket.”
She nodded slowly, looking about the cottage before fixing her gaze somewhere around his throat. “Good night, then.”
“Good night, kigara.”
Until tomorrow.