Chapter 16
Imogen stared at the open threshold into the main room of the house. There’d never been a need for a door before to separate her bedchamber from the rest of the cottage. Across from the central fireplace, her bedchamber was warm and cozy, and she could keep an eye on the fire throughout the night.
On this night, she also watched the top of Balar’s mane and his ears. They were just visible at the edge of the threshold from where he laid on the sofa.
She hadn’t waited to see how he’d arranged himself there, instead fleeing into the far corner of her bedchamber to hastily change into her long-sleeved nightgown.
Imogen wasn’t proud of the way she’d dived under the covers, pulse beating frantically at the thought of the big, flirty, virile manticore on the other side of the wall.
Imogen’s body buzzed and burned with desire long into the night, but she held firm. She didn’t dare bring herself any kind of release, sure that not only would those sensitive manticore ears hear it but his nose would scent it, too.
After all his heated stares that night, she doubted it’d take much to see him barging into her room to join her in bed.
Which would be bad. She definitely didn’t want that.
Right?
The whole day had been…a new experience. Her cottage was so obviously unfit for a grown manticore male. Most of her furniture came from her parents’ home and had been made for a much larger house. Imogen navigated it with ease, but Balar was far bulkier, with three more limbs.
It was a wonder he hadn’t knocked anything over.
With him being so big and strange in her space, he’d seemed to take up all of it. Everywhere she turned, there he was. She’d run into him so many times, she began to think he was doing it on purpose.
Between that, his omnipresence, and the heated way he watched her, as if he was stripping her bare with his gaze, of course Imogen had fled into her bedchamber. She’d never wished for a door before, but she halfheartedly did now.
Not because she was afraid of him, but so that she could think.
It seemed impossible to do with him right there. She could see his precious triangular ears, twitching every so often. If she held her breath and listened hard, she could hear his steady breathing beneath the soft crackle of the banked fire.
It was difficult not to be so aware—it was the first time anyone but her and Shadow had spent the night within the cottage. Not even Neomi had slept here, too afraid of the sounds of the forest at night.
Imogen wished she could focus on those forest sounds, but nothing filtered through. All she could do was roll to her other side to stare at her bureau, willing herself to sleep.
Just close your eyes and try not to think of him, she told herself. It’ll be morning soon enough, and you can think about what to do with him then.
Except, that’s not what happened. Imogen still tossed and turned most of the night, coming wide awake whenever Balar so much as sniffed.
Although, she must have drifted off by sheer will or exhaustion at some point, for when she next opened her eyes, it was to find the room brightening with the weak light of a gray morning.
Imogen lay there for a long while, unsure what to do. She wasn’t one to linger in bed, her mind always too full of things she could be doing. The animals would also start bleating for their breakfast if she tarried too long.
Still, she couldn’t quite make herself get up and face him. She needed to stoke the fire, start boiling her oats, and feed the animals. From the sound of it, the rain had abated for now—she couldn’t discern anything about her overnight guest.
Finally, there was nothing for it but to get up. Before leaving her bedchamber, she pulled out one of her mother’s old shawls, gathering the edges together beneath her throat and pinning it there. She was covered from neck to toe but still felt exposed when she poked her head through the threshold.
Imogen blinked in astonishment to find the living area empty. The blanket he’d used had been neatly folded and left upon the far cushion, and all the pillows were arranged correctly.
A noise from the front of the cottage caught her ear, and she turned her head to behold Balar by the front door, wiping down his legs. He’d redressed in his shirt and kilt, although his mane was again frizzed by the damp air outside.
Noticing her standing there, Balar smiled wide. “Good morning, urisá. How did you sleep?”
“All right,” she lied, her voice thick with embarrassment. “Yourself?”
“Very cozy.” Sticking a thumb over his shoulder, he told her, “I’m just back from feeding the animals. I figured it was a good way to earn their trust.”
Imogen stared in surprise. “Oh…thank you. You didn’t have to.”
“It was no trouble.”
They lapsed into silence, Imogen unsure how to fill it.
So she did the only thing she could think of—she stuck to routine.
Turning away, she scurried into the kitchen, pulling out everything she’d need to make them a hearty oat mash for their breakfast. As the water began to boil, she cut up thick pieces of dried meat for Shadow.
When she bent down to give him his full dish, she took the opportunity to peek at what Balar was up to.
From between the table and chair legs, she spied him working away at the fireplace, rekindling the coals into flames.
Straightening, Imogen turned back to the stove. She wanted to think her heated cheeks were from the boiling water, but she knew that wasn’t true.
He was being…helpful. Not acting like a guest.
He only worsened her awkward consternation when, the fire stoked, Balar came into the kitchen, pulled out a chair, sat at the table, and watched her expectantly. Fates, she could feel his probing gaze along her back.
Her nightgown wasn’t see-through, was it? She didn’t think so, but the fabric was old and worn; she hadn’t ever had to worry about it before.
She found herself chewing on the strange, foreign thought that she wished her nightgown was prettier. Her mother’s shawl was a lovely pink, but the nightgown itself was plain, serviceable. No romantic billowy sleeves or lace details. Just simple tubular sleeves that hugged her arms and a bare hem.
Wishing she appeared prettier for the benefit of a man’s gaze was a disconcerting thought, and Imogen didn’t exactly like it.
She also wasn’t sure she liked just how…intimate it felt to be before him in her nightgown, plain as it was, even covered as she was in a shawl. No one but family had ever seen her in her nightclothes. Family, and now Balar.
Every time she glanced his way, she found him staring at her, hope and pleasure obvious in his expression. He smiled at her, winked, and offered to help, but Imogen didn’t think she could bear having him stand alongside her right then.
She hated her embarrassment—this is my home, after all—and resented her shyness—I’m a grown woman, after all—but couldn’t help either. Although he’d made himself smaller by sitting down, his continued presence overwhelmed her and the cottage.
I don’t know what to do, she lamented. And, I don’t know what I want to happen.
It didn’t take much thought to guess what Balar hoped for. His looks and manners were a little more polite, a little less heated than last night, but he still carried himself with the air that with one indication from her, he’d pounce.
That sense made her acutely aware of every movement.
She didn’t want to give him the wrong idea.
Yes, she might wish her nightgown prettier, more alluring, but she wasn’t actually sure that she’d do anything with that power had she had it.
She didn’t know how to be pretty or alluring.
She didn’t even know if she wanted to be.
I never have been before.
It was a new reality she found herself in, one she felt herself ill-prepared for.
His attention made her jumpy, and it took her much longer than usual to prepare and plate breakfast. She’d nearly burned the oats and almost added a dash of salt rather than sugar. She kept bumping her hip on the edge of the counter and stubbed more than one toe on a chair leg.
When she approached the table with their steaming bowls, Balar was quick to reach for them, taking the bowls and her hands in his. The shock of his touch saw the bowls quaking in her grasp and nearly upending onto his lap.
Smooth as could be, he let the bowls slip onto the table while keeping her hands in his. He guided them to his shoulders, forcing Imogen to step into his space—and between his spread knees.
“That’s better,” he crooned.
It was strange looking down into his broad, leonine face from above. He wasn’t much shorter than her seated as he was, but it was just enough to make her taller than him for once. It was also the perfect height for him to wrap his hands around her waist, holding her steady.
“Did you not want breakfast?” she asked, looking somewhere over his head.
“Oh, I’m famished, kigara. Positively starving.”
Imogen’s cheeks flared with heat. He wasn’t talking about the sweetened oats.
She opened her mouth to say…something…but nothing came out. Rumbling happily, Balar took full advantage. His mouth swept over hers, lips and tongue searing as they touched and teased and coaxed.
Imogen inhaled sharply, her senses assailed by him. He was everywhere—holding her hips, taking up her vision. In her nose, in her mouth, there was only Balar.
By all accounts, it should have made her swoon. Fairytales, stories, and anecdotes were all preoccupied with the pleasurable wonders of kissing.
It wasn’t that she didn’t like it. Not really. It was that…well…it was so much all at once.
He was so big and dominant and forward. He pushed her, challenged her, in ways she wasn’t sure she could meet. Balar knew what he wanted—and for some reason it was her.
For now.
That insidious thought only grew louder once she’d had it, making her stomach churn.