Still, his gaze held a gleam of wariness. “I know there’s far more to it than that.”

I lowered my eyes and ran a hand through my hair. The beast watched me, his curiosity falling into suspicion with my continued silence.

“Aster, did you sail here?” I shook my head and looked up to find his brows flattened. “You warped.” At my failure to respond, he confirmed, “You’re of high-born blood.”

That could mean anything. A fact he was all too aware of.

Those with a smidge of noble descent in their lineage were sometimes born with abilities many of our kind didn’t have. “Then I suppose you are too,” I fired back, being that he too could manipulate the energy rifts to move from one place to another. He could warp.

My statement broke the fierce set of his jaw, and I splayed my palms over the rough stone wall behind me as he advanced and cocked his head.

The motion was pure predator.

And I’d never felt more tiny, more like prey, as his hands pressed into the stone and his arms caged me. “Fine.” Using his nose, he tilted up my chin, then skimmed it over my jawline. “Keep your secrets,” he whispered, rough. “For now.” His lips climbed over my chin, hovering over mine. “Open your beautiful mouth.”

Instinctively and instantly, I did. Another hardened sweet, this one buttermilk, was passed to me via his tongue.

I hadn’t seen him reach for any, too distracted by everything I shouldn’t feel and the consequences I couldn’t yet bear to grasp. Too addicted to the way his lips fit perfectly against mine, the soft yet undeniable claiming within every sliding caress.

“One more night,” he rasped, the demand more of a plea.

Breathless already, I fell deeper into my demise. “One more.”

“Chicken or beef?”

“Both,” I said, without knowing why he’d asked, and stared down at my bare legs. My fingers brushed over the tunic I’d changed into. It had been left to dry over the back of the dining chair, the material heavy yet not uncomfortable.

We’d returned to the cottage mere minutes ago, Scythe’s glances hungry and his hold on my hand unwavering as we’d trekked back uphill to the trees. I’d almost expected not to make it through the door. To have been pushed up against it with my skirts around my waist at the very least.

But with a rotten, toe-curling smirk, he’d released me to pluck a bottle of wine from the cupboard. He’d set it on the dining table with a grumbled, “This one’s not stolen.”

I’d smiled, thankful he couldn’t see as he poured me a glass and then started the fire. It wasn’t much, just a comment, but it had shown he’d listened.