Page 42 of Changelings
Over the course of the morning, they filled dozens of jars with treats for later. It filled him with satisfaction to know that he could help hiskigarain this way; the work would sustain her throughout the coming winter.
Not that she need worry about going cold or hungry, of course. He’d never allow her to even flirt with either.
She was meant to flirt only with him.
Although, goddess bless her, he wasn’t sure hissah-zendaknew the meaning of the word. It wasn’t that she was guileless, per se—she just genuinely didn’t seem to know how. Or didn’t realize that he was flirting with her quite obviously at every opportunity.
It was also clear she was unused to sharing her cottage with anyone but Shadow. More than once, she bumped into him while maneuvering around the kitchen. It was a good opportunity to catch her waist in his hand, with the excuse of steadying her, but Imogen would merely mutter an apology, her blush nearly as pink as her birthmark.
Balar soon learned to anticipate her movements, stepping out of her way before she could crash into him. Oh, to be sure, by the time he got good at their little dance, there were opportunities when he stepped further into her way, if only to feel her for a moment.
What could he say—he was a greedy male.
Despite her apparent nerves, Balar found that his jumpy mate could still be wooed into conversation. And even games. After a hearty lunch of stew and fresh bread, they took a breakfrom chores to play dice. Imogen didn’t have any other playing pieces or cards, so it was really a game to see who could roll the highest number.
It didn’t take long for them to invent their own game, assigning meaning to each number. Both of them added rules that would benefit their standing in the game, and by the time they finished, Balar thought it one of the more complicated games he’d ever played.
After that, Imogen used the opportunity of having an extra pair of hands to brush out Shadow. In the anteroom of the cottage, Balar held the dog by the shoulders as Imogen passed the brush over Shadow, collecting the last of his shed coat.
Shadow glared at Balar in betrayal the entire time.
“No one enjoys the molt,rusa,but you must bear it bravely,” he informed Shadow.
Imogen snickered from the dog’s rear end. “Don’t tell me manticores shed, too.”
“We do indeed. Usually twice a year, but it is warmer in the savannahs than here. We also molt—usually in spring. It’s unpleasant.”
“Oh joy, a bunch of itchy, grumpy manticores to look forward to.” Imogen straightened and popped her hip, letting the brush loll in her loose grip as she said, “Although, I’ll bet it’s a funny sight.”
Balar smiled. She was considering what it would be like to see them molt in spring.
“You must promise me now that you won’t laugh too much. At least not at me,” he said. “A manticore’s pride is most vulnerable during the molt.”
“I’ll try my best,” she said, and although she did so absently, focusing again on Shadow, Balar was thrilled.
She’s thinking of the future. Our future.
With that done, Imogen found other chores for them to do.He’d no idea there were so many ways to make so many different breads, but Imogen showed him how to prepare hearty loaves, sweet milk breads, and even a savory plaited roll. Various loaves required different lengths of proving, and so it was an artful dance, leaving one to rise, putting another in the oven, and pulling out the first.
As they measured and kneaded and plaited, they played a little game she said she’d play with her father as they worked the family farm. It was a rhyming game, passing words back and forth. Balar took to it, although Imogen said it was cheating to use his mantii words. He declared it wasn’t, and they kept a spirited debate as one loaf came out and another went into the oven.
She kept them busy throughout the afternoon as the rain continued to patter on the roof. It didn’t sound as though it would relent, and, to himself, Balar prayed for it to continue. Even worsen.
Let me stay here with her.
The closer it got to nightfall, the greater his hopes became.
After dinner, Imogen finally relented. Sinking into the armchair, she sighed happily, a sound that went straight to Balar’s cock.Ibás, he wanted to hear her sigh like that as he sank inside her.
She rested her elbow on the chair arm and her cheek on her fist, her languid gaze soft in the glow of the fireplace. Balar settled across from her on the padded bench, doing his best to make himself comfortable. He’d long since abandoned the blanket, too warm as he worked and not wanting to soil it with berry juice or flour paste.
He’d caught her peeking at his backside more than once, and Balar had smiled smugly to himself.
She may be prickly, but she isn’t immune.
They spent a pleasant few moments in companionablesilence, listening to the hearty crackle of the fire. Balar stole peeks out the kitchen window, willing the sky to hurry up and darken completely.
“What do you like to do on evenings like this?” he asked softly.
