Chapter 8 Cadeon #2
She crawls over to me, awkward in the blanket, and I arrange her against my chest. Her front to my front, pulling her between my legs so she's cradled against me. I wrap my arms around her waist, then pull the blanket over both of us.
"Put your hands against my chest," I guide her cold hands to rest against my skin. "Skin contact transfers heat most efficiently."
"You're so w-warm." Her voice is muffled against my shoulder. "I thought v-vampires were cold. Before you were..."
"Usually. But I've fed recently. Your blood." I pull her tighter against me, trying to share every bit of warmth I have. "Your magic-rich blood. It's kept me warmer than I've been in decades."
She's pressed fully against me now. Chest to chest, my arms around her waist, my chin resting on top of her head.
I can feel every shiver that runs through her, every breath she takes.
Carefully I arrange my legs to spread her across my lap.
She requires this heat more than I need to feel comfortable.
The fire crackles beside us, gradually warming the room. But it's not enough. She needs more.
"The shift," I say quietly. "It's damp at the shoulders. It's still pulling heat away from you."
"Oh." She's quiet for a moment. "Should I..."
"You don't have to. But if you want to warm faster, it would be most efficient."
"Help me?"
I close my eyes briefly, gathering control. Then I carefully reach for the hem of her shift. "Lift your arms."
She does, and I pull the thin fabric over her head. She's left in what I assume are undergarment, practical, modest even, but there's so much bare skin now. Her back, her shoulders, the elegant curve of her spine.
I pull her back against me quickly, wrapping us both in the blanket before I can see more than I should.
"Better?" I ask, my voice rougher than I intend.
"Y-yes." Her shivering is already lessening slightly. "Perfect."
"Your magic, apparently, is potent." I adjust my hold, making sure the blanket covers her completely. Making sure every inch of her back is pressed against my chest. "And you're very cold. The contrast makes me feel warmer than I am."
Her hands are still pressed against my chest, but they're moving now. Not seeking warmth frantically, just touching. Exploring. Tracing the scars that mark my skin.
"You have so many scars," she murmurs, her voice steadier now.
"Two centuries of fighting will do that."
"Do they hurt?"
"Not anymore. They're just... there. Marks of what I was."
"What you survived," she corrects. Her fingers trace a particularly long scar across my ribs. "Each one is a time you lived through something that should have killed you."
I never thought of it that way. To me, they were just evidence of violence. Of being used as a weapon. Of all the ways I failed to protect myself because I wasn't allowed to.
But the way she says it, the way her fingers trace each mark with something like reverence...
"You're doing it again," she says softly.
"Doing what?"
"Thinking too hard. I can feel it through the bond." She shifts slightly against me. "Relax. I'm not going anywhere."
"That's not..." I stop, because how do I explain? "You're very close."
"That's kind of the point of sharing body heat."
"Yes, but." I search for words. "You're very close. And you're barely dressed. And I can feel every breath you take, every movement you make, and I’m trying to..."
"Trying to what?" Her voice has changed slightly. Less cold-shaky, more... something else.
"I'm trying very hard to be appropriate," I say tightly.
There's a pause. “What if I don't want you to be appropriate?"
My breath catches. "Iris."
"I'm just saying." Her hand has stilled on my chest, palm flat over my heart. "We're here. Together. And I keep thinking about the other night." She trails off.
"When you kissed me. About how I wanted more but you pulled away." She turns her head, and I scan the curve of her throat, the rapid flutter of her pulse. "About how I've been thinking about it constantly ever since."
"You shouldn't." The words come out rough. "I'm not... I can't..."
"Can't what?" She resettles in my arms. The blanket stays around us, but now she's straddling my lap, her hands on my shoulders, her face inches from mine. "Can't want me? Because I feel what you feel through the bond, remember. And I know you want this."
She's right. The bond is singing between us now, carrying everything I'm trying to hide. The want, the need, the desperate hunger that has nothing to do with blood and everything to do with her.
"This is a bad idea," I manage.
"Probably." She's leaning closer. "But I'm warm now. And safe. And I'm tired of pretending I don't want you."
"Iris, you murder me."
"If you don't want this, say so. I'll move. I'll get dressed and we'll pretend this never happened." Her eyes meet mine, steady despite the flush on her cheeks. "But if you do want this... I'm giving you permission to want me back."
Permission. She's giving me permission.
The last thread of my control snaps.
I cup her face in my hands and kiss her.
She makes a soft sound of surprise and pleasure against my mouth, and then she's kissing me back. Her hands slide into my hair, holding me close, and I can feel the heat of her even through the thin fabric of her shift.
This is different from the last time we kissed. That was tentative, testing. This is hunger. Need. Two weeks of tension finally breaking.
I deepen the kiss, one hand sliding into her hair, the other settling at her waist. She tastes like honey and herbs and home, and I can't get enough. Can't get close enough.
She rocks against me, and the friction sends heat racing through my veins. I groan against her mouth, my hand tightening on her waist.
"Is this okay?" she breathes against my lips. "Tell me if I should stop."
"Don't stop." I pull her closer, nearly crushing her against me. "Please don't stop."
She doesn't. She kisses me harder, deeper, her hands exploring my chest, my shoulders, mapping every scar and muscle. And through the bond, I feel what she feels: desire, yes, but also affection. Trust. The bone-deep certainty that this is right.
That I am allowed to want this. To want her.
My hand slides up her back, feeling the delicate curve of her spine through the thin shift. She shivers, but not from cold this time. From pleasure. From a desperate want mirroring my own.
"Cadeon." My name is a prayer on her lips. "Touch me. Please."
"Where?" The word comes out harsh, desperate. "Tell me where you want me to touch you."
"Everywhere." She rocks against me again, and I can feel her heat even through our layers. "I want your hands everywhere."
I nearly come undone right there.
Instead, I kiss her throat, feeling her pulse jump beneath my lips. She gasps, arching into me, and I can feel her pleasure through the bond so sharp and sweet and overwhelming.
"Can I?" I press my mouth to the spot where her pulse beats strongest. "May I feed? Not much. Just a taste."
"Yes." No hesitation. "Yes, please."
I bite down gently, just enough to break skin, and her blood floods my mouth in a rich wave so sweet and laced with magic. She moans, her hands fisting in my hair, and through the bond I feel the way feeding affects her. The heat that pools low in her belly. The pleasure that mixes with the sting.
I take only a few swallows, then seal the wound with my tongue. She's trembling against me, breathing hard, her pupils blown wide.
"That was incredible, I... " She can't seem to finish the sentence. "I didn't know it could feel like that."
"Neither did I." I rest my forehead against hers, trying to regain control. "You're intoxicating."
"Good." She kisses me again, slower this time. Deeper. "I want to intoxicate you. I want you to feel everything."
I do feel everything. Her heart racing. Her skin flushed with heat. The way she fits perfectly against me, like she was made to be here.
The way I've never wanted anything as much as I want her.
We kiss until the fire burns low, until her shivering has completely stopped, until we're both flushed and breathless and tangled together under the blanket.
When we finally break apart, she stays in my lap, her head on my shoulder, her hands resting against my chest.
"The storm's dying down," she murmurs. “We didn’t bring our decorations.”
"I’ll get them." I don't loosen my hold. "Later."
We sit in comfortable silence, and I let myself have this. This moment of peace. This feeling of rightness. This woman in my arms who looks at my scars and sees survival, who kisses me like I'm precious, who gives me permission to want.
"Cadeon?"
"Hmm?"
"When I’m warm and we don’t have an excuse," She looks up at me through her lashes. "Can we continue this?"
"You think I was looking for an excuse?"
"No." She smiles. "No, but maybe permission from your partner."
Partner. The word settles somewhere in my chest, warm and permanent.
"Then yes." I kiss her forehead gently. "We can definitely continue this."
Much later, when the fire has burned down to embers and we're both warm and sated, she stays in my lap. Her head on my shoulder, the blanket wrapped around us, my arms secure around her waist.
The storm outside has quieted to a gentle snow. Through the windows, I can see the world has gone white and peaceful.
"We should probably move to actual furniture," she murmurs against my neck. "The floor can't be comfortable for you."
"I've slept in worse places." I tighten my hold. "Besides, I'm not ready to let go yet."
"Good." She snuggles closer. "Neither am I."
“Maybe, I’ll go with you to get the boughs, that way you can warm me up again.”
I blink and stare at her. This impossible gift. This impossible creature. A witch I can respect. A witch I can want.
She scans my face. “Too much? I’m not very subtle.”
"No." I cup her face, memorizing this moment.
Her flushed cheeks, bright eyes, the happiness radiating through our bond.
"Don't ever be subtle. I've had two centuries of people being indirect and cold.
I want..." I search for words. "I want your honesty.
Your chaos. Your terrible sense of direction and your complete disregard for proper measurements. "
"That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
"Then you've been talking to the wrong people."
"Probably." She settles back against my chest with a contented sigh. "But I found the right person eventually."
The right person. As if I'm not a centuries-old vampire with more blood on my hands than she can imagine. As if I'm not broken and damaged and barely remembering how to be anything other than a weapon.
But when she looks at me like I'm something precious instead of something terrifyingI almost belie ve it.
"We should eat something," I say eventually. "You need to replenish after losing body heat. And after..." I trail off, feeling heat creep up my neck.
"After making out with my vampire partner in front of the fire?" She finishes helpfully. "You can say it. We're allowed to talk about the things we do."
"Making out," I repeat. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"What would you call it?"
I think about her in my lap, her hands in my hair, the taste of her on my tongue. "Revelatory."
She laughs, the sound bright and warm. "Revelatory. I like that." She stretches like a cat, the blanket slipping slightly. "But yes, food would be good. I'm starving."
"Stay here. I'll bring something."
"Absolutely not." She starts to stand, pulling the blanket with her. "You're not waiting on me. We're partners, remember? We do things together."
"Even when you're wearing hardly anything but a blanket?"
"Especially then. Besides..." She grins over her shoulder as she heads toward the kitchen. "I need to get dressed anyway. Unless you want me to cook in just a blanket?"
The image that creates in my mind is deeply unhelpful.
"Clothes," I manage. "Clothes would be... appropriate."
"Spoilsport." But she's laughing as she disappears toward the stairs.
I sit there for a moment longer, staring at the dying fire, trying to process what just happened.
She kissed me. Touched me. Let me touch her. Gave me permission to want, to need, to be something other than empty.
And she called me her partner.
Through the bond, I feel her happiness, warm and golden and directed entirely at me.
I stand and rebuild the fire, adding wood until the flames leap high again. Our home, because that's what this is becoming, needs to stay warm. She needs to stay warm.
And I find I like this. Taking care of her. Taking care of this space we're building together.
Two centuries of serving, and for the first time, service feels like choice.
I could get used to this.
I am getting used to this.
And that terrifies me almost as much as it fills me with something that might be hope.