I huff and return home.
As I settleinto the chair at my loom and begin weaving, the memory of Rom’s hands on me sends a flush up my neck. He had his forked tongue on me. A gargoyle. The monster I just met. Blessed Stones, but he doesn’t feel like a stranger. I feel safe with him. He understands me. The way he touched me… He said he didn’t want a relationship, but maybe we’re both wrong about that. Maybe there could be something between us.
I drive thoughts of Rom and his very talented tongue from my mind and focus on warp threads and the weft. A scene of sheep, mountains, and a moonlit sky comes to life under my hands.
Spark sneezes a shower of massive sparks, and the quilt he is on bursts into flames.
I rush over, shoo Spark away—he lolls around in fire like a pig in mud—and then I quickly fold the quilt to stifle the flames. Patting out the remaining heat, I shake my head and try not to choke on the smoke.
“Sparkleton, you have to be more careful.”
I head to the kitchen to retrieve a bucket. At the sink, I use the pump handle to fill it with water, then bring it out to the hearth.
“Use this bucket when you think you might have some sparks escaping, all right?”
Spark trots over to the bucket, drinks from it, and then grins up at me. I scratch his head.
“You’re welcome, Sparkston. Now?—”
Before I can finish my sentence, he flies to the door and scratches at it insistently. I let him out. Funny little fellow.
With Spark, also known asthe darling distraction, gone, my gaze slides to the table and the two cups of tea that are still there.
The teapot had tipped over, and I hadn’t even realized it. I grab the cups and the pot and bring them into the kitchen. That licorice and honey scent rises as I rinse them out, and my mind spins right back to Rom. To his dark wings spread behind him, the rippling muscles in his arms as he held me, the feel of his breath against my cheek, the way he heldme and drew pleasure from my body like he was my longtime lover.
I take a towel and wipe down the table, swallowing as my body refuses to let me forget what happened here. I want to touch him. My hands ache to do it. His normally cool stone-like skin had warmed when he’d been pressed against me. He had wanted me, had wanted to do more. But he’d only been dosed with a powerful potion. It wasn’t real. He’ll likely change his mind about regretting today when the potion fully fades. It would be for the best, yes. Definitely.
I actually finish almost all of the tapestry that evening. Just one more very important, late addition to complete. My muscles are relaxed from Rom’s ministrations, and I find weaving even easier than normal. Once I’m at a good stopping place, I get out the recipe book my grandmother left me. No matter how Rom acts tomorrow, we need to come up with a good dish to bring to the Harvest Party. It’s tradition, and Lord Mayor Rustion surely expects our best efforts. I don’t want to let him down. I want to impress Rustion on all fronts—with weaving, enjoying his party, dressing the part, and following tradition.
Chapter 8
Laini
The next day, I storm over to Tully’s again. She whips the door open and grins wickedly.
“How did it go?” She wiggles her eyebrows.
My cheeks flush, and I point at her, backing her into her foyer. “That was criminal, Tully. You can’t just put spells on people without asking. You owe Rom and me a massive apology. And you need to swear you’ll never do it again.”
She is chuckling, and I barely restrain myself from throttling her.
“You had fun,” she says. “Admit it. And Iknowhe did.”
“You don’t even know him, and you don’t knowanything,” I snap. I feel oddly protective of the gigantic gargoyle.
“He’s a male. That’s plenty of information for this specific scenario. What did you do? Give me all the delicious details. You said he has wings. Did he use them? I’ve heard they have forked tongues and a crest of sorts above their?—”
“Tully. Criminals do not get juicy details!”
She sticks her bottom lip out and frowns. “Aw, come on. You two were dying for one another. It was so obvious when he was at your place.”
“You couldn’t even see him. He was wearing a hooded cloak.”
“Body language defies cloaks,” she says.
I bow my head and grumble. “You are the worst. Seriously.”
She grips my arms, her long, witch nails digging into my skin a little. “Eh, I am sort of sorry. Stop hating me and tell me about his special accoutrements.”
