Page 101 of Lamb

Her attitude was subdued. “Be careful, Ash.” She reached over, her hand wrapping around mine. “Lamb is who he is. He gets easily obsessed with things and can be possessive with the few things he likes. Even with toys, he’d play with them until they broke, or he lost interest.” Mable held my gaze, her expression stern and fierce. She didn’t say the words with malice but with warning. “You’ll need to take him as he is or give him up entirely. He may be my great-nephew, but what you might find endearing makes him dangerous. A man like him could take everything from you if you are not cautious.”

Her words settled with unease in my chest. Not because of her tone, but because I knew it was the truth. Those moments, when darkness shone through his eyes, when I felt like gravity was pulling me in, threatening to consume me, I knew it was dangerous.

“Now, go get that boy before he starts banging down the door because I’ve kidnapped you for too long.” She patted my hand and let me go, waving me away with a flick of her wrist and turning back to her computer. Her fingers prattled over the old keyboard, and she did not turn her head back in my direction again.

“Thank you,” I said as I pulled open the door, Lamb’s voice carrying from down the hallway, arguing with the receptionist, most likely.

Mabel didn’t turn.

I smiled, pulling the door shut behind me.

“Ice cream?” I stared down at the display of cold desserts. “In November?”

I would believe Lamb was confused about the season if it had not been for the bitter winds cutting across our skin on the walk over from the car park into the parlour.

In the last week alone, the warm grasp of autumn had slipped, and winter was announcing her arrival as the last leaves fell from the trees, and coats, hats, and scarves were becoming regular sights. The bright lights of the display hurt my eyes as it battled the growing gloom sapping away the daylight.

“Yes,” Lamb said, squeezing his hand tighter around mine, as if I might slip my leash and run for it at the sight of a ninety-nine.

My paranoia bloomed as we approached the counter, the line slowly moving forward. I would have thought an ice cream parlour would struggle as the weather turned colder, but a queue was nested around us, and many booths and tables were occupied.

People whispered and murmured, the occasional glance and look sent our way. I knew it was because of Lamb; he was good-looking and would attract attention regardless of where we were, but after years of hiding my face from even the casual passerby, the agitation was clawing it way up my spine.

I pressed closer into Lamb’s side, welcoming his bodily warmth and the shield from prying eyes.

“Relax,” Lamb leant towards me.

“It is fine for you to say,” I grumbled, wanting to bury my face into the leather of his jacket in the hopes the material would swallow me. It was not his normal club cut, but a warm brown one that fastened to his sharper frame and warmed the chocolatey depths of his eyes. “Someone might recognise me.”

“I doubt the people chasing you are hanging out in an ice cream parlour in Redwood.” Lamb chuckled.

“But—”

I was cut off by the weight pushing down on my head. The cap slid on smooth over my hair, and the brim tugged down over my face. I reached up, grabbing the foreign object before my eyes jumped to the hand holding it. Lamb’s smile sat on his face, soft and gentle, as if he might have been born human, after all. He moved to brush away stray hairs falling over my face, adjusting the hat a little bit here and there until he was satisfied before snapping off the price tag. “There,” Lamb murmured. “Better.”

“But—”

Soft lips planted on mine swallowed my words. It was fast and brief, but the warmth and sweetness lingered long after hehad parted. “No one will look twice at a couple on an ice cream date. You’re safe with me.”

I buried my face into his arm, hiding the reddening burn flushing over my cheeks. I wanted to argue that there was no way someone would not notice, but I thought better of it as we made our way to the front counter, next in line to order.

“What are you choosing?” I squinted at the labels.

Lamb shrugged, careful not to jostle the hold I had on his arm. “I’ve never been picky about food. It doesn’t taste all that different, so any is fine for me.”

It was not a surprising answer.

“You?”

“I do not know,” I mumbled, looking over each of the distinguished colours. They were bright and vibrant, some with things mixed in or decorations on top. “I have never tried ice cream before.”

Lamb stiffened in my arms. If he wanted to ask something, he thought better of it. Instead, his silence was solemn and thick with thought as we moved further up the line. Panic rushed my nerves as we were about to pick up our order. I could not see the labels well enough to know what each one was, and the vast choices were overwhelming.

“What can I get for you?” The cashier turned to us. He was a young man with freckles over his face, and even he gave Lamb a long once-over. I could not tell if it was admiration or something more. Neither would surprise me.

“We’ll take the hat”—Lamb pointed to the souvenir hat now fixed onto my head—“and a double vanilla,” Lamb gave his order, and the boy quickly turned to me.

“And for you, miss?”

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