Page 28 of Love the Way You Lion
Our house is an icon of well-oiled cooperation and support.
As my fingers trace the edge of another costume’s page—a latex ensemble that could make a succubus blush—I hear the familiar sound of Taurus’s presence. I don’t need to look up to know he’s here; there’s an energy shift in the room that heralds his arrival every time.
But I turn my head anyway, catching him as he walks out of our closet, his movements silent yet commanding. The tiny bird tattooed on his chest catches the light from the chandelier, its metallic sheen alive against his skin, feathers practically rustling as if caught in an imperceptible breeze.
For a moment, I’m lost in the sight of him, the chaos of my earlier confrontation with Sari fading into the background. It’s just Taurus and me, and the promise of distraction within these pages.
He crosses the room, each step a silent assertion of his presence that commands my undivided attention. The sight of him—so familiar yet so capable of leaving me momentarily breathless—sometimes makes me stop in place, even now.
The small, inked bird seems to take flight across the expanse of his chest, its wings subtly shifting with the play of light and shadow as he moves closer. Taurus’s tattoo is not just a mark on his skin; it’s a part of him, an emblem of something both wild and intimate that we share.
“What’s in the binder, baby?” His voice is low, the words rolling out like smooth pebbles in a velvet drawl. The tattoo turns its headtowards me, as if curious about my answer, and I smile, finding myself drawn into the comforting orbit of his aura.
The pages of the binder flutter under my fingertips as I flip through the catalog of memories and materials, each costume a story in itself. “I’m looking for clothes for the party,” I say, my voice trailing off. The enormity of my collection is a reminder of past revelries, a treasure trove hidden away and seldom acknowledged for its vastness.
As Taurus prowls closer, a living embodiment of strength and assurance, my focus falters. The book, once an escape, now pales compared to the allure of his approach. His presence is magnetic, pulling my attention away from the task at hand.
“Party’s still on? Good for him.” His voice ripples through the room, a low rumble that seems to vibrate along my skin. As he speaks, his scent, wild and familiar, envelops me, filling the space between us with an intoxicating warmth. He climbs up on the bed, his movements deliberate and fluid—a predator in his element, graceful even in the confines of our shared sanctuary.
I nod, the motion an involuntary response to his question rather than a conscious decision. My tongue darts out, tracing the curve of my lips in anticipation, as if preparing for some wordless conversation we’re about to engage in. The binder, thick with the weight of fabric and fantasy, slips from my grasp like it’s been waiting for permission to abandon its post. It thuds against the carpeted floor, pages splayed open to endless possibilities now ignored.
He grins wickedly, the expression dancing across his features as if he’s privy to an inside joke only he understands. But I’m quickly learning the punchline is shared between us, unspoken yet mutually comprehended. This man, Taurus, with his predatory grace and tattoo that seems alive under the play of light, doesn’t need words to articulate his intentions.
Okay, this kind of distraction I can deal with.
The chaos of earlier, the tug-of-war with Sari, all of it fades into the background. Right here, right now, there’s no guilt, no quests, no resentment—just the two of us, and the promise of what’s to come.
The Blade and The Artist Contemplate The Party
RAFE
Ilie back and let her pace, drinking in the sight of her like it’s my last meal, and she’s the feast. She’s completely naked, spinning a blade in one hand like it’s an extension of her mood—beautiful, dangerous, and impossible to ignore. Every step she takes radiates heat and tension, both of which I soak up like the warm summer sun. Talia is so full of vibrant, violent emotions when we’re alone; it’s hard to reconcile with the cool, intelligent predator she portrays in public sometimes.
But this is one of the moments I live for: her, raw and real, stalking the room like a restless predator, while I sketch her with the lazy precision of someone who knows he’ll never quite capture the lightning he loves.
She’s trying to figure out what claiming me means, and what it looks like walking into a party knowing you might be on the menu if it comes out. No one else knows besides our families—it’s not public, not official. The truth is just between us, and that gnaws at her because it creates a weak spot.
“We claimed one another, but no one knows,” she mutters, and I feel the ache in it. The way it lands like a weight between us. “I’d prefer they did so it won’t be athing, but I also know why we can't tell them yet.”
“I know, pet,” I reply, voice low and steady. “And I appreciate you allowing that time after the blogger’s death for things to settle down in the community.”
Flicking my wrist, I let the pencil do its thing. She comes to life on the page: the precise angle of her spine as she twists, the controlled chaos of her hair, the flicker of metal as she spins that blade with practiced ease. She’s fury incarnate in bare skin and muscle and grit.
“The party is for me and we can’t cancel it,” I say, as if that explains anything. “Bad timing all around, but no one else seems to care about that. You’re invited,” I add around the second pencil I’ve stuck between my teeth. I say it like it’s a joke, but it’s not.
It’s a social powder keg, and apparently, I’m the only one holding a match and shouting ‘don’t’.
“Taurus will go with Deli. I’ll look stupid.”
A blade whistles through the air and embeds into the bedpost, not an inch from my ear. The old me would’ve flinched. Hell, the old me might’ve screamed. But that was before her. Now, it barely earns a raised eyebrow.
“I doubt that,” I murmur, still sketching. “You can hang out with me; I might need a bodyguard.”
She snorts. “I have a small socialization problem.”
I pause, lift my head just enough to catch her eye, and deadpan, “I can’t imagine why you think so.”
She eyes the embedded blade, then starts twirling another, almost absentmindedly. Nervous energy coils around her like a storm cloud. I love that about her—the way she funnels discomfort into movement, the way her fingers speak even when her mouth doesn’t. “Don’t be an ass.”
