Chapter 5 #2
Fuck, that wasn’t what he meant, the truth more apparent than ever with her so close. She was almost like a demon under the firelight, but her features were just so round and soft, and her color was washed out or…or lost.
“I didn’t mean,” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure he was actually saying anything at all because he was mentally recalling every time he had been cutting and cruel and how it always earned him the same in return.
Surely she would yell any moment and storm off, and he would never get the chance to call her anything else again.
“Well, thank you for helping me up, sir,” she said, pressing a hand to her chest and devolving into a fit of giggles. “I’m Brioni, by the way. I didn’t get to tell you before because you were in such a rush to send me back to the post.”
It was Ragnar’s turn to be utterly bewildered, fangs and claws pulsing as he shifted his gaze to the earth, the only steady thing he knew for sure would still be there. She wasn’t angry, and she had called him sir. No one had ever done that.
What the fuck was wrong with this human?
“Oh, I have something for you!”
Ragnar’s ears pricked, gaze darting back up, but she had turned away and bent over. They were both lucky then that he had trained impulsiveness out of himself long ago. She hadn’t brought anything for Ragnar, and most definitely not that.
“Oh, and you can have some too, you little cutie,” she cooed, both Moar and the atteapir sitting before her, their backsides wiggling with how fiercely their tails lashed as she offered them each a slice of bacon.
Did she…did she come back on purpose? Ragnar’s brow furrowed as he tipped his head, admiring how her skirt inched up the back of her thighs. Or maybe this one always carries bacon around in her pockets.
The woman whipped back to him, skirts swishing dizzily. “And I even have something for you.”
Oh, something was definitely wrong with her, and worse, now it was wrong with him, if the sudden tickle in his chest told him anything.
What could she possibly—the post. He snorted, swatting away the anticipation before it could take hold.
He wasn’t expecting another package, but requests to treat pets or assist in delivering livestock offspring weren’t rare.
She produced something from her pocket, small enough to fit inside one of her fists. Unfurling her fingers, she presented…not exactly a letter, but a piece of parchment folded over itself many times so it formed a shape that stood on its own.
Ragnar took it carefully so as to avoid touching her skin, picking it up by a point between two fingers and bringing it to his face.
It was a strange thing—letters were usually folded just once or twice and delivered by drayk, never so many times nor delivered by demon or human hand.
He dropped it into his palm and slid a finger inside one of the folds to open it.
“Oh, no, don’t do that!” She launched herself at him, clasping his fingers and holding them still.
Once again, Ragnar’s desire to pull away had to be squashed. Humans seemed to have no idea how much space demons needed. They probably slept in piles like veilhounds too. “How am I to read it then?”
“It’s not a letter—it’s Moar. See?” She was careful as she flicked the paper back into itself then grabbed one end of it and tugged. The other end, a longer point with jagged folds, wiggled back and forth like a tiny magic machine. “Took me all day to figure out how to get the tail to wag.”
Ragnar squinted at the elaborate craft in his palm, and the shape was obvious then. Gods, it was Moar. A simple creature could not have made something so clever and delicate and…thoughtful.
He looked at the human again, at the twig sticking out of her curls and the smudge of dirt on her cheek and the glimmer of hope in her eyes.
His free hand twitched like he might have wiped away the dirt or plucked out the twig, but his claws would have been too much of a danger that close to her skin, too much of a risk to the brightness she radiated even without magic.
“Do you like it?”
It was unfortunate that Ragnar had never really been gifted anything before because, in general, that was pretty sad, and also because he was completely unpracticed in what a demon was meant to say when presented with a present.
“It’s late,” was what ended up coming out of his miserable mouth. Harshly too because there was that strange tickle in his chest again, and when faced with something so foreign, he could only think to shout it down.
She looked around as if seeing the darkness for the first time.
“You should not be out when the moon has set. Especially not here.” And that came out even harsher.
Her lips turned down. “Well, I told you I got lost, and it can’t really be that late because—”
Ragnar hooked a hand around her upper arm and began marching toward the barn. She would argue, just like before, and he had no patience for even the thought of that.
She stumbled but kept up. “I don’t see what the big deal is—it’s always dark here.”
“It is not only about the dark.” Which was true but would not be elaborated on. Behind them, Moar and the atteapir yipped, following.
“Well, then what is—oof!”
Ragnar tugged her a little harder, uninterested in a quibble as they traipsed through the barn to its other end where the path back to town lay.
“Your legs are a lot longer than mine, you know.”
Finally, something they could agree on. “I do know. Your reach and height are also deficient, you have no tail to steady yourself, and no horns for defense. I assume you’re extremely weak as well.”
She gasped in her squeaky way and tried to tug out of his grip.
“Assumption proven.” He came to a stop at the threshold of the barn and gave her a small push. “Go.”
She spun on her heel, and Ragnar was taken aback by her face doused in green lantern light and utterly indignant. And then, as if she were a qapian about to charge, she snorted. Apparently human and demon culture agreed that snorting was a sign of scorn.
He pointed down the path.
She crossed her arms so tightly her breasts almost popped out of her top.
Why this human thought to challenge him with immobility when he had hauled her up off the ground and knew exactly how portable she was, he couldn’t fathom, but she had tucked the easiest part of her to haul too close to her breasts for him to hazard grabbing again.
“Go,” he repeated in his lowest, most threatening voice.
She sucked in a deep breath, pinched her features, and fluttered her lashes. “Make me.”
Instinct ignited in Ragnar’s brain like a bolt of lightning striking a caligo alder and setting it aflame. She was not simple, but she was also not all that complex—this human, this Brioni as she called herself, was just willful. And willful beasts only needed to be tamed.
He bent, wrapped arms around her thighs, and stood in one swift move.
Her hands grappled with his back as she tried and failed to free herself from being swept over his shoulder, but it was no use.
“Ragnar!” she squealed, and he didn’t think to ask how she knew what to call him when she continued to whine and huff just behind his ear. That was…annoying. Definitely annoying.
He strode down the darkened path unimpeded by her bouncing weight, but his head rang with her sounds of protest. There was something in those sounds, something that made him want to take slower steps, to goad her with his words, to ask how she expected to be handled when she acted so defiantly.
But he did none of it, only listened to her huff and grunt and fuss.
Notably, however, she didn’t utter a single No, put me down, or even an incensed How dare you?
Eventually the path ran out, the starry sky casting brightly enough on the edge of Heck proper and then on her curls when he finally set her back on her feet.
With the warmth and weight of her body gone from his shoulder, he felt whatever the opposite of relief might have been and then decided to ignore it.
The human took a step back, fists balled at her sides and face no longer so pale but pulsing red like a fire demon’s. She opened her mouth like she might finally shout at him, but she only took panting breaths as if she’d been the one to lug him down the trail.
The corner of Ragnar’s mouth twitched upward. “You’re not pleased? I only did what you commanded of me—I made you.”
“I didn’t—” She swallowed, and her features darkened. “If you didn’t like the papercraft, you could have just said so!” Then she turned and fled toward the city.