Page 22 of Dawn to Dusk
“Why is that?”
He ran his finger down the length of his proud nose. “It is simple.”
“Scent?”
“Ninety five percent of beast species need that sweet scent of arousal to maintain an erection when another person is involved.” He told me. “It’s conditioned. If even the tiniest bit of fear or worry sours your scent, it’s an immediate showstopper, our cocks go flaccid. Our instincts require us to either walk away or resolve the issue before proceeding.”
“Interesting.” The narrative was so controlled back home, and none of the books I acquired mentioned that.
“You see.” He gestured to the gold veil separating us. “This is not necessary.”
It felt like he dumped cold water on me. I was mortified that he knew that I feared him being able to take advantage of me. “I’m sorry if I have offended you.”
“No apologies needed.” Another smile pulled onto his lips; a reassuring one this time. “I’ll earn my trust. Thank you.”
A magic unicorn indeed.
I didn’t realize how much I craved company. Being an outcast gets old, I guess.
“Pylo made it sound like you two still have relations.” The question in his statement was heavily implied.
“Not exactly. We have been separated for decades, but divorces aren’t legal on the isles.” And witches aren’t known for being picky in times of desperation.
“How does your son feel about it?”
I hummed a moment before I said the same thing I always did. “I killed my son.”
“Liar.” Not one hint of hesitation in his eyes. Once again, he read me like the truth was printed on my forehead.
“Okay.” I chuckled. “I was supposed to kill him. He grew too powerful, and some were threatened by him. He lives on an island hidden by my wards. He prefers solitude anyway.”
“Too powerful?”
“His magic is unique.” Then I swerved the conversation before it became more dangerous. “Do you have any children?”
“Not alive. My daughter, Selise, was a servant of Herth, and died in the Battle of Witches before the war started.”
The slaughter my mother initiated to kill off any witches who would stand up against her when she waged her war against the beasts. An effective means to guarantee our own people wouldn’t attempt to refute her. She covered it up by saying it was witches with beast bloodlines dirtying up our legacy. A deep sigh left my mouth as a painful twist of my chest took hold. “I’m sorry.”
“You were not even born, why would you apologize to me as if you were responsible?”
“Because it feels like it.” I confessed.
“You should not be carrying the weight of your mother’s sins.”
“Someone has to.” Because my mother didn’t care. It was a means to an end so she got what she wanted, nothing more. All the blood that was spilt in her name was just decor for her empire.
“Not you.” He sounded sure of that.
I didn’t comment further and redirected the conversation again. We talked throughout the meal, and he never tried to move closer. He kept his respectful distance. “At the risk of being too forward—”
“Seems to be your thing.” I teased him. That wasn’t true; he toed the line between bold and inappropriate exceptionally well.
He chuckled at me. “If I were to proceed in courting you, is it still acceptable, as a witch, to be a paramour?”
“That is forward.”
“I want to make sure nothing has changed. Witches did not use to care, but it has been a long time. I have no desire to waste each other’s time.”
