Page 71 of Sweetling
Allarion went perfectly still. Sensing his shift, Molly looked up at him, those brown eyes of hers wide.
It took two tries to force the words from his throat. “Grab you?” Even he heard how his voice had dropped low in his throat.
Her lips thinned with displeasure. “Yes. Drunk men often get braver. And handsy.”
Rage licked up his spine. He’d certainly seen some rowdy behavior for himself in the tavern, and Molly had told him a few anecdotes of her serving there, but he hadn’t imagined her having to make a sacrifice like cutting her hair in order to keep safe. That she hadn’t been safe in that tavern, her home, burned like molten lead in his guts.
Allarion didn’t realize he’d lost himself to his rageful thoughts until one of her small, gentle hands came to rest on his chest.
“It’s all right,” she soothed. “I know how to handle myself.”
He cracked his jaw, trying to loosen the hold his anger had on him. It did nothing but make Molly uncomfortable—he could save it for a more deserving recipient.
Steadying his breathing, he covered her hand with his and cupped the side of her dear face in his other. Sliding his fingers through her hair, he marveled at the softness. What would she look like with a heavy curtain of chestnut curls? He hoped one day to find out.
“You need never make such alterations again. You are safe here, sweetling. Always.”
“I know,” she whispered, her words arrowing through him.
Something thudded painfully in his chest, shaking his ribs. His throat went tight as she looked up at him with eyes that crinkled at the corners. A soft smile touched her lips as she turned her cheek into his hand to nuzzle his palm.
He could hardly believe his eyes, watching her little show of affection. Forhim.
His mind ceased to work for several moments.
Allarion’s gaze fell to how her throat elongated when she turned her head. A tendon in her neck pressed against her skin, and he could just see the faint beat of her pulse there.
His fangsached.
Staring at her throat, Allarion had the distinct desire tobiteher. To draw her blood, her very essence into himself. She would behis.In the most visceral, primeval way.
Saliva pooled on his tongue to taste her.
Noises dulled, his vision narrowed. The pulse at her throat matched the thud in his chest, a quake that shook him in his boots.
Let me,he wanted to beg her,let me taste you.
“Allarion?”
The sound of her voice—his name—he blinked, trying to put her face into focus.
Molly still looked up at him, but concern had wrinkled her brow. “Your eyes…”
He turned his face away, needing to take a steadying breath. On looking around the kitchen, he realized all the spoons and pots and herb fronds had lifted in the air from his wayward magic.
He’d need to siphon some off soon, even though it was far sooner than his usual interval. His indomitable desire for hisazaihadstirred more than just his lust inside him, it seemed.
Goddesses, what had he been thinking? Drink her blood…
There were old rites, more ancient than the fae in these lands, that spoke ofazaibiting each other. There were even still fae women who enjoyed scoring their partners with their fangs, and more than a few fae men wore their scars like a badge of pride.
He remembered Maxim had spoken of blood before, Aine’s blood but was vague, even with Allarion. He’d wondered if Aine’s blood was the reason for Maxim’s transformation.
Gone was the spiderweb of black veins beneath his skin. Instead, Maxim bled red. His sclera had gone white, his tongue pink. Allarion thought it had to do with Aine being human. That Maxim spoke of her blood metaphorically, like the heart or spirit.
What if…what if…
He didn’t know if he dared touch the thought too firmly.
