Chapter 9 #2
He snorted but didn’t argue, just waited while she bundled into his jacket that hung past her knees.
Outside, the cold bit sharp but clean. The twin suns were starting their descent, casting purple shadows across the snow.
He led her to a grove of trees she’d seen from the window, their branches heavy with blue-green needles.
“These?” She touched a branch, which released a scent like pine but sweeter, with an almost citrus edge.
“Young ones are best. More fragrant.” He pulled a knife from his belt, then selected branches with careful attention. “Here, smell this.”
He held out a cutting and she leaned in, inhaling deeply. The scent filled her lungs, bright and alive. When she looked up, he was watching her with an intensity that made her stomach flip.
“Perfect,” she managed and they gathered more.
Back inside, they arranged the branches among the decorations. The scent mixed with the silver herbs, creating something new. Neither human nor Latharian.
“Your mother,” he said suddenly, not looking at her as he adjusted a branch. “She would have liked this?”
The question caught her off guard, emotion rushing up to tighten her throat. “She would have loved it. The mixing of traditions, the handmade ornaments. She always said the best celebrations were the ones you created, not the ones you bought.”
“Sounds like a wise female.”
“She was.” Juni touched one of the stars, remembering her mother teaching her to fold paper ornaments. “She would have liked you too.”
He snorted. “Doubtful.”
“No, really. She had a thing for grumpy men with good hearts. Said they were the most trustworthy because they didn’t waste energy on false charm.”
He went still, looking at her while that muscle in his jaw pulsed. “I’m not—”
“You are though.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “Good-hearted, I mean. You pretend otherwise but you bought me Christmas supplies. You’re helping me decorate. You saved my life yesterday and then held me while I—”
“Juni.”
The way he said her name, low and warning and something else, made her stop.
“I’m going to start the fire.” He moved toward the hearth. “The ceremonial woods need time to catch.”
She watched him arrange kindling and logs, moving closer in fascination.
The woods were all different colors… some pale as bone, others dark as night.
One was deep purple and there was another in bright green.
He treated each piece with careful attention, placing them according to a pattern that meant nothing to her.
“What do the different woods mean?”
“White niilkia for releasing sorrow. Black soorn for strength through darkness. Red heartwood for passion.” He paused on that last one, then continued. “Silver biir for new beginnings. Gold traais for prosperity.”
“Which one are you focusing on?”
He struck a spark, coaxing the kindling to life. “All of them.”
The fire caught, flames dancing up through the logs. The smell was amazing… complex and layered, each wood adding its own note. She breathed in and moved closer, drawn by the warmth and the way firelight played across his features.
“I should check the stew,” she said but didn’t move.
“It can wait.” He added another log. “Needs to simmer anyway.”
She should get plates. Set the table. Do something other than stand here watching him tend the fire. But her feet wouldn’t move. The room had gone dusky beyond the circle of firelight, their decorations glowing soft in the growing dark.
He stood, brushing his hands on his thighs, and almost bumped into her when he turned. They both froze. She tilted her head back to meet his eyes, the angle making her throat feel exposed, vulnerable.
“There’s one more tradition,” he said, voice rough. “For luck through winter.”
“What’s that?”
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a sprig of silver herb she recognized from their wreaths. “Worn behind the ear. To invite good fortune.”
His hand came up, fingers grazing her jaw as he tucked the sprig into her hair. The touch was featherlight, but she felt it everywhere. His thumb brushed her cheekbone as he adjusted the placement. His eyes had gone dark again, focused on her mouth.
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. His hand lingered against her face, thumb tracing her cheek. He leaned down, slow like he was fighting himself, and she stretched up to meet him—
“The stew needs stirring,” he said as he pulled back, hand dropping. He turned away, not looking at her. “Or it’ll burn.”
She nodded, watching as he stirred the stew, then she moved to set the table. Adjusted decorations that didn’t need adjusting. Keeping busy while her body hummed with frustrated want.
He put full bowls of stew on the table and they ate in silence, the tension thick enough to cut. But it wasn’t the hostile silence of her first days here. This was different. Charged. Like the air before lightning strikes.
“Tomorrow,” she said, needing to fill the quiet, “I thought I’d try to make something special. For Christmas dinner. If you have the ingredients for—”
“Whatever you need.” He wasn’t looking at her, focused on his bowl. “Make a list. I’ll see what we have.”
When the bowls were empty, she stood to clear the table. So did he. Another dance of almost-touches as they moved around each other.
She washed. He dried. The silence stretched, thick and charged.
The fire had burned lower while they ate.
She should go to her room. Put the decorations between them and retreat to safety.
Her feet carried her to the fire instead.
He followed.
Dropping down to sit on the floor in front of the couch, she pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them.
He sat with his back against the couch, long legs stretched toward the heat.
The space between them was deliberate. Careful.
But not enough. She could still feel the warmth radiating from his body, could catch his scent every time he shifted.
“The lights are beautiful,” she said softly. “Thank you. For buying them. For helping today.”
He grunted. Not dismissive, just acknowledging.
“I know you didn’t want—” She stopped, started over. “I know this isn’t what you signed up for. Me being here. But I’m grateful. For the supplies. For taking me to Midwinter. For—”
For making me feel less alone than I’ve felt in years.
“—everything.”
He turned his head, firelight catching his eyes and making them glow. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Disappointed?”
“No.” The reply was rough, but certain. “Not disappointed.”
They sat in the charged quiet, the fire crackling in front of them. Snow had started falling outside, fat flakes visible through the windows, adding another layer of insulation from the world.
She should go to bed. Should put distance between them before she did something stupid like crawl into his lap and kiss him until neither of them could breathe.
“We’ll need to start early,” he said, voice low. “If you’re making something elaborate.”
“Right. Early.”
The fire popped, sending sparks up the chimney. One of the ceremonial logs shifted, releasing a fresh wave of scent. The silver herb behind her ear had warmed against her skin, its fragrance mixing with everything else.
“The fire’s getting low,” he said, though it wasn’t.
“We should add more wood,” she said, though they shouldn’t.
And still, neither of them moved.
Juni had been awake for an hour, maybe two, staring at the ceiling while her mind replayed last night.
The way Goraath had looked at her in the firelight.
The way his thumb had traced her cheek when he’d tucked that silver herb behind her ear.
The way they’d sat there, neither willing to leave, the space between them charged and aching.
Until they’d gone to bed.
In different rooms.
God, this was torture.
She rolled out of bed and padded to the kitchen in bare feet, the stone floor cold enough to make her hiss. But she had work to do.
An hour later the sweet bread she’d baked sat cooling on the counter. Not quite right—the alien flour had a different texture, the spices weren’t the same—but close enough. She unwrapped it and the scent filled the air—warm and yeasty. Her mother would have approved.
Setting water to heat for the kasta, she dug through the spice containers she’d found yesterday. There—that one smelled almost like cinnamon if she didn’t think too hard about it. A pinch in the mugs, just enough to make it special. To make it Christmas.
The table needed setting. She smoothed the red fabric runner, adjusting it three times before it looked right. Sprigs of silver herb at each place—for luck, he’d said. Branches of til’vaash between them, that bright pine-citrus scent filling the kitchen.
Two plates. Two mugs. Everything arranged just so.
From her pocket, she pulled three small white shapes.
Snowmen, made from fabric scraps she’d found in a storage box.
She’d stuffed them with dried herbs and scraps, stitched tiny smiles with black thread, and fashioned buttons from seed pods.
She bit her lip. She’d been so proud of them but now they just seemed ridiculous.
She tucked them back in her pocket, stomach fluttering. What if he thought they were stupid? What if—
Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Her heart-rate kicked up as Goraath filled the doorway.
His hair was loose and damp from washing, falling past his shoulders in a dark wave that made her fingers itch to touch.
He’d put on clean clothes… work clothes still, but fresh ones.
He stopped when he saw the table, taking in everything.
The bread. The decorations. Her standing there, wringing her hands like an idiot.
“Merry Christmas.” The words came out smaller than she’d intended.
He didn’t move for a long moment, his gaze on the table. Then he looked at her. “You did this?”