21. Lynn
— ? —
Lynn
“Okay, hear me out.”
I’m sprawled on Milo’s floor on a pile of blankets, contraband containers from the dining hall spread around me like offerings.
It’s been weeks now, weeks of stolen nights and shared mornings, the month the goddess gave him dwindling down to its final days.
My ankle is finally, finally cleared for “light activity,” the campus physician’s exact words this afternoon, delivered with a knowing look that suggested she suspected I’d been doing more than resting.
“I’m listening,” Milo says. He’s on the floor too, leaning against the bed, chopsticks moving between containers with the efficiency of someone who’s eaten a lot of floor picnics.
“Lycans are real.”
“Established.”
“Which means mythology isn’t just mythology.”
“Also established.”
“So what else is real?”
He pauses mid-bite, considering.
“That’s a broad question.”
“I’m a broad thinker.” I steal a dumpling from his container. “Vampires?”
“Real.”
I choke on the dumpling.
“What?”
“Vampires exist. They’re quite territorial. Excellent taste in architecture.” He says it like he’s discussing the weather. “We don’t interact much - different territories, different politics - but I’ve met a few. Pleasant enough when they’re not being insufferably dramatic.”
“You’ve met vampires.”
“Several.”
“And you’re just telling me this now?”
“You asked now.”
“I-” I set down my chopsticks because I need both hands for the gesturing I’m about to do. “What else? What else is real?”
“How much time do you have?”
“Forever. I have forever. Tell me everything.”
He grabs another container, some kind of spicy noodle situation, and settles more comfortably against the bed.
“Dragons,” he says casually.
“Dragons.”
“Very rare. Very old. Keep to themselves mostly. There’s one in the mountains about two hundred miles north - we exchange holiday cards.”
“You exchange holiday cards with a dragon.”
“She prefers ‘wyrm,’ technically, but yes.”
I stare at him.
“Mermaids,” he continues. “Though they prefer ‘mer-folk’ and they’re mostly in the deeper waters. Excellent singers. Terrible conversationalists - they only want to talk about tidal patterns.”
“Oh my god.”
“Fae exist, but they’re tricky. Best avoided unless you know what you’re doing. Bears that aren’t bears - werebears, essentially. Good people. Great at carpentry, for some reason.”
“Werebears who do carpentry.”
“The pack has a standing contract with one for furniture repairs.” He says this like it’s the most normal sentence in the world. “His name is Bruce. Very reliable.”
“I’m going to need a minute.”
“Take your time.”
I lie back on the blankets, staring at the ceiling.
Vampires and dragons and mermaids, and apparently werebears named Bruce who do carpentry.
“You have good relationships with them? These… other creatures?”
“Some of them. We’re cordial with most. Lycans tend to be territorial, but I’ve always believed in diplomacy.” He’s quiet for a moment. “I used to sneak out a lot. When I was younger. Before I became king.”
I prop myself up on my elbows. “Sneak out?”
“My father was… restrictive. The pack wasn’t supposed to interact with other species. Old prejudices, old fears. But I was curious.” His smile turns slightly wicked. “And I was very good at not getting caught.”
“Milo Draven. Delinquent prince.”
“Something like that.”
“Tell me everything. Right now. I need stories.”
He laughs, setting down his chopsticks. “What do you want to know?”
“How did you meet the dragon?”
“She caught me trespassing on her mountain when I was sixteen. I thought she was going to eat me. Instead, she made me tea and complained about her ex-husband for three hours.”
“Her ex-husband.”
“Another dragon,” he says, enjoying whatever my face is doing. “Very messy divorce. Something about hoarding disagreements.”
I’m laughing so hard my ribs hurt. “What else? What other trouble did you get into?”
“I once spent a weekend with a vampire coven in Prague. They were hosting a music festival.”
“A vampire music festival.”
“Very exclusive. Excellent acoustics in the crypt.” He grins at my expression. “I also got into a bar fight with a werebear once. Very bad decision. Bruce’s cousin, actually. We’re friends now.”
“You have the most insane life.”
“I have a very full life.” He reaches over, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Fuller now.”
My heart does something stupid.
“Vampires, though,” I say, because I need to redirect before I start crying or climbing into his lap or both. “That’s so sexy.”
“Sexy?”
“I read a book once. About a vampire. The love interest had these fangs-” I’m gesturing now, fully committed. “And he was all dark and brooding and tortured, and there was this scene where he was fighting his bloodlust-”
“His bloodlust.”
“But he wanted her so much, and his fangs would graze her neck when they kissed-”
“His fangs.”
He repeats it low, warning, but I’m too far into the plot to stop now and, honestly, too aware of what it’s doing to him to want to.
“And he’d pull back at the last second because he was terrified of hurting her, but you could tell he was desperate-”
“Lynn.”
“ - and the tension was incredible, and then finally at the end he gives in and it’s this beautiful surrender-”
“Lynn.”
I stop mid-gesture.
The room has gone very quiet.
And very warm.
Milo is staring at me with an expression I’ve never seen on him before. His eyes have gone gold, but not the dangerous gold of anger. This gold is heated, focused entirely on me.
“You have,” he says slowly, “very strong opinions about fictional vampires.”
“I - they’re - the fangs are just-”
“Say it again.”
“Say what?”
“Fangs.” His voice has dropped, rough and low. “Say it again.”
“Fangs?”
He moves.
One second I’m propped on my elbows surrounded by empty containers. The next, the containers are scattered and I’m on my back and he’s above me, crowding into my space, his hands braced on either side of my head.
“You like fangs,” he says. “Noted.”
“I-”
“You like brooding and tortured.”
“It’s just a book-”
“You like the idea of someone so desperate for you they can barely control themselves.”
His mouth finds my neck, and I gasp.
“I can do desperate,” he murmurs against my skin. His teeth scrape, not quite biting. “I can do barely controlled. I can do tortured.”
“Milo-”
“Vampires, though.” He pulls back enough to meet my eyes, and his smile is dangerous. “They don’t worship. They take. And I-” His hand slides up my thigh. “I like to give.”
“That’s - that’s a semantic distinction-”
“Is it?”
His fingers find the hem of my shirt, sliding underneath, tracing patterns on my stomach that make my brain short-circuit.
“No fictional creature,” he says, “has ever wanted anyone the way I want you. No written words have ever captured this.” He kisses me, deep and thorough. “Let me prove it.”
“Prove what?”
“That reality is better than fantasy.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, just lifts me off the floor, carries me the three steps to his narrow faculty bed, and deposits me on the mattress with a gentleness that contradicts the fire in his eyes.
“Your ankle-”
“Is cleared for activity.” I pull him down to me. “The doctor said so.”
“The doctor said light activity.”
“I can be light.”
“You can’t be light. You are the heaviest thing that’s ever happened to me.” He kisses my neck again, that scrape of teeth that makes me shiver. “In the best way. The most devastating way.”
“Milo-”
“I’m going to take you apart,” he murmurs. “I’m going to worship you until you forget every fictional love interest you’ve ever read about. And then-”
Voices.
The blood drains from my face.
Voices. In the office. Right outside the hidden door.
Milo freezes above me.
“Did you lock the office door?” I whisper.
The look on his face is answer enough.
“I was distracted.” His voice is barely audible. “The food run-”
“MILO.”
“Shh.”
He clamps a hand over my mouth as the voices get louder. Female voices. Several of them. Giggling.
“I’m just saying, he’s objectively the hottest professor on campus-”
“Objectively? That’s a strong word.”
“Have you seen his shoulders? Those are objective shoulders.”
My eyes go wide. Milo’s hand stays firmly over my mouth.
“Girls,” he breathes against my ear. “In my office. Leaving something on my desk.”
More giggling from the other side of the door.
“Should we leave the cookies on his chair?”
“No, the desk. More visible.”
“What if someone else takes them?”
“They won’t. Everyone knows this is Professor Draven’s office. No one touches his stuff.”
Except me, I think hysterically. I touch his stuff. I’m touching it right now.
Milo’s hips haven’t moved. He’s still inside me, because that’s when they arrived, that’s the moment the universe chose for this cosmic joke, and I can feel him fighting the urge to laugh.
“Do you think he has a girlfriend?”
The question comes from somewhere near the desk. Close. Too close.
“No way. He’s married to, like, books. Have you seen how many books he has?”
“Books,” Milo whispers against my ear, his voice shaking with suppressed laughter. “Married to books.”
I bite his palm to keep from making a sound.
“He does seem really dedicated to his work.”
“That’s what makes him so hot. The intelligence.”
“The intensity.”
“The way he looks at you when you ask a question in class, like you’re the only person in the room-”
Milo’s hand tightens over my mouth. His hips shift, just slightly, just enough to make me squirm.
“That’s not fair,” I breathe against his palm.
“What’s not fair?”
“You’re - you can’t just - Milo-”
He thrusts, slow and deep, and I nearly scream.
“Shh.” His mouth finds my ear. “We have to be quiet. House rules.”
“You’re - you’re doing this on purpose-”
“Doing what?”
Another thrust. My eyes roll back.
“They’re going to hear-”
“They won’t.” His rhythm is maddening, slow enough to stay silent, deep enough to make me lose my mind. “Not if you’re good.”
“I can’t-”
“You can.” He’s laughing silently against my neck, his whole body shaking with it. “You’re so good at being good for me.”
The voices continue, oblivious.
“Do you think he’s single?”
“Definitely single.”