“You fought well,” she told him. “You killed him at least four times. Aunt B would be proud.”
Hugh was looking at her. He dipped his head. She didn’t realize what he was doing until his lips found hers. It was a hungry desperate kiss. She tasted his pain on her tongue and stepped away. The entire front of her dress was soaked in blood. Hugh stumbled and toppled forward like a log. She barely caught him and her knees shook under the impact of his dead weight.
“Can we have lunch now?” Ascanio asked.
Hugh opened his eyes. The ceiling above him was shrouded in gloom. He was in his bedroom.
Everything hurt.
He blinked at the ceiling, trying to find some equilibrium between the pain in different parts of him, a magic spot where it hurt a little less. He failed.
What time was it? It had to be late. The last thing he remembered was fighting Medrano. He didn’t really have a plan for that fight. He wasn’t sure how it would have ended. He hadn’t wanted to kill Medrano in front of the man’s wife. He had some vague idea of letting the shapeshifter tire himself out, but then it became something else. He was pretty sure one of them wouldn’t survive that fight.
He remembered Elara and the cooling touch of her magic. Like walking into a cloud of mist on a hot summer day.
Then he remembered nothing.
Did he kill Medrano?
No, she must’ve stopped him.
A smell floated down to him. He smelled orange, butter, and something else, some sort of dough. Suddenly he was ravenous.
Sitting up proved to be an effort. Someone had stripped him down to his underwear. He didn’t smell blood, so he’d been washed.
He staggered to the door. Across the hallway, Elara’s door stood open. Soft light glowed inside. The aroma was coming from there.
He stumbled around, looking for something to wear, and settled on a pair of black pants and a white T-shirt. He managed to put both on without making noises and headed down the hallway.
The scent got stronger. The castle lay quiet around them. Outside the windows in the hallway, night spread across the sky, glittering with stars.
Hugh made it to the doorway. The front room of Elara’s suite lay empty. He walked through, following the smell, turned and saw her. She stood in a small nook off her bedroom. A big stone oven occupied a large part of the far wall. In front of him was an island with a cooktop and a prep sink. Between the stove and the island stood Elara, with her back to him. Her blue dress clung to her, draping over her butt. Her hair was braided and pinned up, and he could see her slender neck.
Mmmm.
He leaned in the doorway.
Elara grabbed something out of the stove and turned toward him. She was holding a metal platter, her hands in kitchen mittens.
She was wearing an apron. A frilly little apron, white, with pink cherry blossoms on it and wide black ties, wrapped around her and knotted into a bow on the side.
He laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
This couldn’t possibly be real. It was another dream. “I wonder which part of my demented brain wanted to see the Ice Harpy in an apron. Baking cookies.”
“These are not cookies.”
He glanced into the pan. It was full of crepes, folded into quarters and drenched in melted butter. The heat had browned the crepe edges. She must’ve sprinkled them with sugar, because a thin layer of caramel dotted the edges. The last time he had a crepe Suzette was in France, ages ago. He couldn’t recall why he was there or what he was doing, but he remembered the dessert and bright red flames licking the crepes as it was flambéed at the table.
Elara pulled off her oven mittens. “Is that what I am, an Ice Harpy?”
“Yes.” And he was on fire. He couldn’t even think straight.
“You’re not going to get any of my crepes with that attitude.”
He moved toward her, stalking. She crossed her arms on her chest but didn’t move. He walked behind her, slowly, aware of every inch of space between them. She smelled of jasmine and green apples. Too subtle for a perfume. A hint of shampoo or a lotion, maybe. He wondered if he would taste it as he licked her skin.
“Be careful, Preceptor.”
He reached down, caught the end of her apron tie, and tugged on it.
“Quit it,” she told him.
Oh, he would enjoy this. “It’s my dream,” he told her.
“I don’t care.”
Of course she didn’t. He laughed, his voice low, and tugged on the tie again.
“Will you stop it?”
“I told you to stay out of my dreams.” He leaned in close, inhaling the scent of her skin and whispered into her ear. “You’re trespassing.”
Her eyes widened. He looked into them and caught the exact moment where a hint of white flame burst in their depths. On the battlefield of Elara’s mind, banners of war unfurled, and soldiers broke into a charge. He’d learned to watch for this look when they argued. That’s when it got really good.
“Perhaps you should ask yourself why you’re letting me waltz in and out of your dreams, Preceptor. What is it you want?”
He was so hard, it hurt.
“Perhaps I’m hungry.” He reached over her shoulder and stole a crepe from the platter. She tried to slap his hand, but he was too fast.
“They’re not done yet.”
“They look done to me.” He held the crepe, out of her reach. “Do you want this back?”
“Yes.”
He leaned closer. “What will you let me do to you to get it back?”
“Give me back the crepe, Hugh.”
He held it in front of her. She snatched it out of his hand and turned her back to him to drop it back into the pan. He locked his hands on the island, caging her between his arms.
She stood completely still. He felt the tension vibrating in the angle of her spine and the set of her shoulders and it made him harder.
He leaned forward and kissed her on the right side, just below her ear. She gasped. Her skin felt warm and soft under his lips, like warm silk. He touched the sensitive spot with his tongue, painting heat over the nerve, and she leaned back slightly, looking for him in spite of herself. He wanted to crush her to him, to rip off her clothes, and lose himself in her soft body. It was a wild, uncontrollable need, simple and violent in its intensity. He wanted to pin her to the bed and run his tongue over the nipples of her breasts and then slide lower, over her stomach, down below. He wanted to hear her moan, to see her breathless, to watch her open her legs for him, and make her come like she never came before. He wanted to thrust into her and hear her scream his name, because she couldn’t get enough. He wanted her to love it, because he was doing it to her.
“Stop, Hugh,” she whispered.
He caught a tendril of her white hair into his fingers and kissed it. “Why?”
“What if this isn’t a dream? What if you’re awake?”
“And you’re cooking crepes Suzette in the middle of the night in a pretty apron?”
“What if I am? If we wake up in the morning in the same bed, what then?”
“I don’t know. Tell me.” He kissed her neck again, on the other side. She took a sharp breath and swallowed.
“We finally learned to work together. If you don’t stop…”
He bit her neck, pinching the skin between his teeth. Her voice broke. She shivered, and it almost pushed him over the edge.
“…if you don’t stop, we’ll go to war in the morning, because this isn’t you. Your body was straining so hard to repair all the damage, you glowed for hours. You’re exhausted and not in your right mind. You’ll regret this moment of weakness. You’ll make me pay for it.”
His lips traveled down to the bend of her neck. Her breath was coming in ragged gasps. She wanted him. His whole body had gone hard, every muscle, every nerve screaming for her.
“I can’t afford the price. Stop, Hugh. Stop.”
The words finally penetrated. He could force her. It was a dream and he could do whatever he wanted to, but it wouldn’t be enough. He wanted more, something his subconscious refused to let him have even in his dreams. This was another nightmare. He just hadn’t realized it until now.