Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I’m not sure how we ended up on my couch.
One minute we were standing in my cramped kitchen, caught in that charged moment of possibility, and the next we had migrated to the living room.
Maybe I’d suggested we get comfortable. Maybe Rion had simply needed to duck his head away from my low kitchen ceiling.
The details were fuzzy, lost in the electric current still running between us.
What was crystal clear, however, was the weight of his presence beside me.
My sofa, a secondhand find that had always seemed perfectly adequate for my small apartment, now appeared comically undersized with Rion perched on it.
He sat with careful precision, as if afraid his bulk might crush the furniture—or me.
I tucked my legs beneath me, angling my body towards him. The remains of his biscuits sat on the coffee table between us, along with two steaming mugs of tea I’d made in a desperate bid to occupy my trembling hands.
“These are really good,” I said, reaching for another biscuit. “Is there anything you can’t bake?”
“Soufflés,” he answered seriously. “They collapse under my gaze.”
I choked on my tea, caught off guard by his deadpan humor. “Did you just make a joke?”
The corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Occasionally.”
“I like it,” I said, then added more softly, “I like this side of you.”
His dark eyes met mine, intense and searching. “Which side is that?”
I considered the question, setting my mug down carefully. “The one that makes jokes about intimidating soufflés. The one that knows how to get wine stains out of rugs. The one that isn’t… hiding.”
The word hung between us, weighted with meaning. Rion’s massive hands rested on his knees, the tension in his fingers visible.
“Hiding is… habit,” he said finally, his deep voice quiet. “A survival mechanism.”
“I understand that,” I said, shifting slightly closer. “But you don’t have to hide with me.”
He looked at me then, really looked at me, and the vulnerability in his expression made my heart ache. For all his physical power—the impressive horns, the imposing height, the sheer strength in his frame—there was something profoundly tender in his gaze.
“No,” he agreed softly. “It seems I don’t.”
Silence settled between us, not uncomfortable but charged with unspoken thoughts.
I sipped my tea, hyperaware of his every movement—the rise and fall of his broad chest as he breathed, the slight shift of his weight on my creaking sofa, the way his eyes kept finding mine across the small space between us.
“Tell me about your favorite book,” I said, partly to break the tension and partly because I genuinely wanted to know.
He seemed to consider the question with the same seriousness he approached everything. “The Old Man and the Sea,” he said finally.
“Hemingway,” I nodded. “The book you have a grudging respect for.”
“It’s honest,” he explained. “About struggle. About dignity in defeat.”
“About being alone,” I added softly.
His eyes met mine again, something flickering in their depths. “Yes.”
“Have you always been alone?” The question slipped out before I could stop it, more direct than I’d intended.
Rion didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted to the window, where the night pressed against the glass. “Not always,” he said. “But for a long time.”
“And now?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes returned to mine, dark and intense. “Now I’m here. With you.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. This wasn’t just conversation anymore; we were navigating something deeper, more significant. I found myself wanting to reach out, to bridge the physical gap between us the way we were bridging the conversational one.
Instead, I asked, “Why did you answer my text? That first day, when I messaged the wrong number. You could have ignored it.”
He seemed surprised by the question. “I…” He paused, searching for words. “I was curious. Your message was… unlike anything I’d received before.”
“Because of all the emojis?” I smiled, remembering my overly enthusiastic text.
“Because of the life in it,” he corrected. “The unguarded enthusiasm. It was… refreshing.”
“Even with the ‘bullheaded boss’ comment?” I winced at the memory.
A small smile curved his mouth. “That part gave me pause.”
“I’m still mortified about that,” I admitted.
“Don’t be,” he said. “It led to this.”
This. Such a simple word for whatever was developing between us—this connection, this understanding, this moment on my sofa with the rest of the world fading away.
The conversation lapsed again, but the silence felt different now—heavier, more charged.
My apartment seemed to shrink around us, the distance between us on the sofa both too great and not nearly enough.
I found myself cataloging details about him: the perfect symmetry of his horns curving from his forehead, the way the fur at his neck was slightly thicker, like a mane, the surprising elegance of his large hands as they cradled the delicate teacup.
Rion caught me watching him and held my gaze. Something passed between us, electric and undeniable. He set his cup down with deliberate care, the movement drawing my attention to the powerful muscles of his forearms.
“Clara,” he said, my name rumbling from deep in his chest.
“Yes?” I tried to keep my voice steady, but it emerged breathier than I’d intended.
He hesitated, seeming to wage some internal battle. His eyes dropped to my lips, then back to my eyes, the longing in them unmistakable but tempered with uncertainty.
“I should go,” he said, though he made no move to rise.
“Is that what you want?” I asked, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it.
He studied me, his expression a complex mixture of desire and restraint. “What I want…” he began, then stopped, shaking his head slightly. “What I want isn’t always wise.”
“Tell me anyway,” I urged softly.
His gaze intensified, pinning me in place. “I want things I haven’t allowed myself to want in a very long time.”
The raw honesty in his voice sent a shiver through me. I understood then that Rion wasn’t just battling desire—he was fighting against years of isolation, of learned caution, of protecting himself from the rejection he’d come to expect.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I said, needing him to know.
“Perhaps you should be,” he replied, though there was no threat in his tone—only a weary resignation.
“I’m afraid of a lot of things,” I admitted. “Heights. Public speaking. The inevitable heat death of the universe. But not you, Rion. Never you.”
Something shifted in his expression at my words—a softening, a surrender. He lifted one large hand, hesitated, then slowly, carefully reached towards me. He paused just before touching my face, his eyes asking a silent question.
In answer, I closed the distance, leaning my cheek into his palm. His skin was warm, the fur on the back of his hand soft against my skin. I heard his sharp intake of breath at the contact, felt the slight tremor in his fingers.
“Clara,” he said again, my name like a prayer on his lips.
The tension between us had reached a breaking point. I couldn’t bear it anymore—this exquisite, torturous almost-something. I needed more. Summoning every ounce of courage I possessed, I shifted closer, until our knees touched. His eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t pull away.
“Rion,” I whispered, my hand finding its way to his chest, feeling the steady, powerful beat of his heart. “I think about you all the time. When you’re not with me, I’m wondering what you’re doing, what you’re thinking. And when you are with me…”
I trailed off, my throat tight with emotion.
“When I’m with you?” he prompted, his voice a low rumble that I felt as much as heard.
“When you’re with me, I can’t think about anything else.” The confession rushed out of me in a breathless stream. “Just you. How you move. How you speak. How it would feel if—”
I stopped myself, suddenly shy.
His hand, still cupping my cheek, shifted slightly, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw with infinite gentleness. “If?” he encouraged.
I met his gaze, gathering my courage. “If you touched me.”
A quiet sound escaped him—something between a sigh and a groan. Then he was leaning in, slowly, deliberately, giving me every opportunity to stop him. I didn’t. I rose onto my knees on the sofa cushions, meeting him halfway.
The first kiss was impossibly gentle—soft, exploring, full of restrained reverence.
I felt the delicate warmth of his lips and the profound tenderness in his touch.
One of his hands slid to the small of my back, supporting me as I leaned into him, while the other remained cupped against my cheek, his thumb stroking my skin in a hypnotic rhythm.
When I deepened the kiss, opening my mouth slightly, he responded with a low rumble that vibrated through my entire body.
His tongue traced my lower lip before dipping inside to explore, and I tasted the tea we’d been drinking, mixed with that intoxicating wildness.
My hands, which had been braced against his chest, drifted upward, my fingers tracing the powerful line of his shoulders, then the base of his horns.
He broke the kiss with a sharp intake of breath, pulling back just enough to look at me.
His dark eyes were intense, almost feral, and I could see the war within him—the desire warring with caution.
My fingers still rested against the smooth surface of his horns, and I could feel the heat emanating from them, the solid strength beneath.
“Clara,” he said, his voice rougher than before. “You should…”
“What?” I whispered, my thumb stroking the ridge of his horn. “Should what?”
A shudder ran through his powerful frame. “Be careful.”
“I’m tired of being careful,” I admitted, my other hand finding its way to the back of his neck, where the fur was thickest, surprisingly soft against my palm. “I want more.”
“Are you sure?” he said, his gaze holding mine.