Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lark
When I emerge from the bathroom some time later, Dante is sitting cross-legged in the centre of the bed. I smell coffee and bread; he has a plate resting by his knee with toast and some fruit that I am sure is already overripe.
“Coffee?” I ask. “I thought we were going to sleep.”
He shrugs one shoulder. He has a book open by his other knee and his eyes are still scanning the words as he speaks. “I’ll still sleep. I found juice in your fridge, too. Should be good.”
“The coffee is fine.”
I sit next to him, leaning over to look at the book he has found.
I have a handful of them scattered around the flat, though I do not tend to read often.
I spend most of my evenings—have spent most of my evenings—doing very little after I close the café.
Mostly, I let the old radio play. I like the sound of voices in the background, and I find TVs a little overwhelming.
“What is that?” I ask. I take a sip of my coffee and try not to pull a face. It is not a beverage I have really grown accustomed to. I much prefer floral teas and their subtle flavours.
“Found it over there,” Dante says, waving vaguely at the room. “Wouldn’t think you’d need it.”
He closes the book and shows me the cover. It is an old, thin book on keeping a vegetable garden. “Someone left it in the café,” I say. “I was interested in finding out how humans grow their plants.”
Dante chuckles and leans past me to set the book on the bedside table. He offers me the plate and I eat with him, both of us sitting quietly, shoulder to shoulder.
“It was a trick question,” Dante says.
“What was?”
“When I asked you to tell me what my favourite coffee is. It was—I knew you weren’t going to know. I’d never let you know.”
Ah. That. The conversation feels as though it took place so long ago. I reach over and touch one of his still damp curls.
“And now?”
“You don’t like coffee at all, do you?”
“No.”
Dante laughs faintly. “Yeah, I don’t like it much either.
Not the fancy stuff. I liked the really sweet caramel ones you made, with the cream and the toppings and—” He shakes his head.
“I just drink instant at home. I only really want it for the caffeine, so it seems a bit pointless splashing out on stuff I don’t like. ”
“Instant…” I clear my throat and feel my cheeks are warm. “I confess, I only opened the café because I thought it would draw you in.”
“You… what?”
Is he angry? I dare not press the bond to find out. “I—When I first saw you, you were in a café. With Ophelia. And after that, too. I-I thought…”
Dante starts laughing. He laughs and laughs, leaning against my shoulder as though he cannot support himself. I find myself laughing, too. Of course I should have simply asked him. Got to know him in a normal, expected way.
“I like the café, though,” he says finally. “I like that everyone hangs out here. I like that you’re here.”
I kiss his forehead. “I like that you’re here, too.” There is much more I want to speak with him about, but now he yawns, and I can sense that we do not have much more time before either of us is too tired to be coherent. I set the plate aside and between us, and we shuffle under the duvet.
Dante sighs when I slide an arm around his waist. He rolls over so we’re face-to-face.
“I’m glad it worked,” he says. “I’m glad we made it.”
“So am I.”
I wake once when Drew comes into the café and the wards flare to warn me that someone else is here. His footsteps are quiet on the stairs, and I hear him set down a bag just outside the door before he retreats back down and into the kitchen.
Dante is still in my arms, sleeping peacefully. When I close my eyes, I fall asleep again too.
The next time I wake, the room is dark except for light spilling in from the streetlamps outside. Dante rubs his nose against my throat and mumbles something. I run my hand up his back and squeeze the nape of his neck.
“You’re awake?” he murmurs.
“Just.” I sigh when Dante makes no move to get up; he shifts into a better position to lean against me. “Sleep well?”
He hums contentedly. His T-shirt has ridden up a little, so when I move my hand to his waist, I touch warm skin. Dante sighs.
“What are we doing?” he asks.
“Right now?”
“Lark.”
“I need to be clear about what you are asking,” I say, and Dante tips his head back to look at me.
“Oh. Sorry. I mean… The bond. It feels stronger than before.”
“Yes.”
“Does that… Do you want that?”
I am almost incredulous that he is asking the question, but then a return to our normal lives—even with the new task that stretches ahead of us—will throw what we have learnt about ourselves and each other over the past few days into disarray.
I shuffle down a little until our faces are on the same level and we are sharing a pillow.
“I want you,” I say. “All of you. I want the bond, and I want to spend time with you and have you fall in love with me just as—”
I cannot say the rest. Not physically—it is not a lie. I do not know that Dante is ready to hear it. I do not know if it is fair, just as it was unfair of me to announce he was my soulbond four days ago without giving him any hint of it at all.
He knows what I mean to say. His eyes go wide and colour darkens his cheeks. “Lark.”
“Tell me what you want.”
“I’ve always wanted you.” At my raised eyebrows, he smiles. “Well, for the past… however many years. But yeah, the sensible part of me is saying that I don’t know you as well as I think I do.”
No one is to blame for that but me. “How do you want to go about this?”
“I don’t know.” Dante sighs. “We have to find the crownbearers. But what if we can’t? I don’t want to spend my last few months regretting… anything. And I don’t—I don’t know if the anger and the hurt are entirely gone, you know?”
I wonder if I should draw my hands back, but I fear that if I stop touching him now, I will fall apart, too. “I am sorry,” I murmur. “I thought what I did was right. I saw what happened with Ronan and Iagan, and I thought it would be better to take my time.”
“Yeah, I know. I understand that better than I did before, I think.”
“We could… go on dates,” I say. “When we are not searching with the others. I could buy you flowers.”
Dante laughs. Not unkindly; the laugh is soft, and his eyes are wet. “That sounds nice.” He touches me now, running his fingers over the T-shirt I am wearing, in deference to making him feel more comfortable. “We could go to a botanical garden. Talk to all the plants.”
“That sounds nice, too.”
“Okay. Dates. Not moving in together tomorrow. Sound good?”
“Will you stay over often?” I want him in my bed all the time now. Despite it all, I have never slept so well as the past few days.
Dante smiles. “Twice a week?”
“Five times.”
“Three.”
“Four.”
“Done,” Dante says and chuckles before he leans in for a kiss.
I open for him as soon as our mouths meet, then roll onto my back so I can tug him up and over me.
This, too, is still new and exciting, but twice is enough for me to know that if I move my hand over Dante’s side, he will squirm before he leans into the touch, and that when I tug at the waistband of his shorts, he will sigh and sag against me.
He does just that, then moans when I shove my hands lower, greedy, suddenly desperate. Dante seems just as desperate now, and perhaps it is the bond, because he tugs on my hair until I gasp and then bites my lower lip.
“I’m spoiled,” he pants before he kisses my neck. “I don’t like to share.”
A growl spills out of my throat. “No sharing.”
Dante laughs. “Not like that. Well, also like that. But if you’re mine, you’re mine.”
I couldn’t agree more. I grab him and roll us again, so now he’s beneath me. He groans into our next kiss and doesn’t seem to mind when my sharp teeth scrape his lip.
“I was raised a prince,” I murmur, trailing kisses down his jaw. “You think I am not spoiled, too? Besides, fae are greedy. And incredibly selfish.”
Dante groans when I suck on his earlobe. He is grabbing at my T-shirt, and I am not sure if he wants to get it off or if he just wants something to hold on to. “Selfish?” He moans again when I squeeze his stomach. “You weren’t selfish when you—fuck—sucked me off.”
I nip his throat and shove his T-shirt up. “I was,” I growl. “It pleases me to please you. Selfish.”
He laughs again, a little longer this time, and it only trails off when I push his T-shirt higher and swirl my tongue around one of his nipples. “Oh, fuck, Lark!”
“Do you want to?”
“Want to what?”
“Fuck.”
Dante gapes at me. “What are we—Lark.”
I grin. “Tell me what you want, Dante. Exactly what you want.”
He stares at me as I push up onto my knees.
I shove one thigh between his legs, pressing against his cock, and plant a hand on the pillow next to his head.
Whatever he wants, he can have. He is part of me, just as I plan to be part of him.
If I get my way, we will cement this bond. Then he’ll understand what I mean.
“I want you to fuck me,” Dante breathes. His face flushes red. “A-and…”
“And?” I cannot help my wandering hands. I rub my thumb over the nipple I just licked, then squeeze his chest.
“I-I want you to tell me. Everything. What you’re thinking while we…”
Oh. “You want to hear all of it?” I murmur, leaning in close to his face. The way his breath hitches is delightful. “Every little thing?”
“Yes.”
I kiss him again because if my mouth is bound to be occupied by words, then I need to enjoy one last taste.
Dante is pliant now, as though the courage it took to ask for what he wanted has drawn all the rest out of him, but that is delightful, too.
I can do whatever I like with him, but there is no denying that what I said before is true.
It pleases me to please him, and what will please him is a hard fuck and me telling him how beautiful he is.