Chapter 2: The Morning After's Revelation
The first thing Casmir was aware of was warmth. A deep, living heat pressed along his side, a contrast to the cool sheets and his own eternal chill. The second was scent. Sun-warmed linen, vanilla, and the distinct, musky sweetness of spent passion.
He opened his eyes. Pale dawn light, genuine and golden, streamed through the open window, setting the dust motes dancing. It should have made his eyes water, his skin prickle. It just felt… soft.
He looked down.
Elara was curled into him, one small hand splayed possessively over his sternum, her face buried against his ribs. Her chestnut hair was a wild spill across his arm and the pillows. Her ears, those impossibly soft, expressive ears, lay relaxed and gently twitching in her sleep. The silk sheet was tangled around her hips, revealing the generous curve of her back, the dip of her waist, the faint, red marks his hands had left on her skin.
His marks.
A possessiveness so visceral it stole his breath gripped him. It was a pure, uncomplicated instinct. This warm, soft creature was his. Her scent was on him, in him. The evidence of their joining was a faint, metallic tinge beneath her sweetness. A low rumble started in his chest, a sound of pure satisfaction.
He shifted, rolling carefully onto his side to face her. The movement jostled her. She made a tiny, sleepy sound—a muffled mrph—and her nose wrinkled. Her eyes fluttered open, warm brown meeting his blood-red.
For a second, she just stared, sleep-soft and confused. Then memory flooded in. Her eyes widened. A blush, spectacular and swift, bloomed from her chest all the way to the tips of her ears. She tried to shift back, an automatic gesture of retreat he remembered from… somewhere. A ghost of a feeling. Annoyance? Distance?
He wouldn’t allow it.
His arm, which had been draped over her, tightened, pulling her flush against him. Her breath hitched. The full, heavy weight of her breasts pressed against his chest. She was so deliciously there.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice morning-rough. He nuzzled into her hair, inhaling deeply.
“Morning,” she squeaked. Her hands fluttered, unsure where to land, finally coming to rest tentatively on his biceps. “Your head… does it hurt?”
He had forgotten. He focused inward. There was a dull throb at his temple, a distant echo of impact. The bruise was a riot of color, he could sense it without seeing it. But it was insignificant. A scrape. This, here, was what mattered.
“It’s fine.” He slid his hand down the dip of her spine, over the swell of her hip. She shuddered. “You’re not.”
“I’m not what?”
“Fine.” He kissed her shoulder, tasting salt and skin. “You’re trembling again.”
“I’m not,” she lied, her body betraying her with another fine shake.
He grinned against her skin, a flash of white fang. He felt… light. Playful. A forgotten sensation. “Liar.” He traced the shell of her ear with his tongue, and she jerked as if shocked. “These give you away every time. They’re adorable.”
She swatted weakly at his shoulder. “They are not adorable. They’re… functional.”
“They’re delightful.” He rolled, pinning her gently beneath him. The golden light gilded her skin, caught in the faint down on her cheeks. Her eyes were wide, hopeful and terrified. The sight fueled that possessiveness, twisted it into a sharp, new hunger. The languid satisfaction of dawn was burning away, replaced by a need to reconfirm, to reclaim.
“Cass…” she started.
“You feel that?” he murmured, shifting his hips. The evidence of his renewed desire was hard and insistent against her thigh. She gasped, her own body softening, answering instantly. Her legs fell open in a gesture of such natural welcome it made his head spin. “This is what you do to me. My clever, soft wife.”
He didn’t wait for permission. He knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that it was already given. He guided himself into her, a slow, deep, claiming slide that forced a choked cry from her throat. She was still wet from the night, still stretched from his use, and she took him with a yielding readiness that shattered any last pretense of thought.
This time was different from the frantic discovery of the dark hours. This was daylight and deliberate possession. He set a relentless, deep rhythm, his eyes locked on hers, watching every flicker of pleasure and pain. He kissed her to swallow her cries, then pulled back to hear them.
“Say it,” he growled, his pace unforgiving. The bed frame began a steady, rhythmic protest against the stone wall.
“W-what?” she panted, her hands scrambling on his back.
“That you’re mine.”
Tears welled in her eyes. They weren’t from hurt. They were from a devastating cocktail of guilt and overwhelming, physical bliss. “I’m yours,” she whimpered.
“Again.”
“I’m yours, Cass, I’m—oh!” Her back arched as he angled his thrusts, hitting a spot that made her vision blur. Her climax ripped through her, sudden and violent, her inner muscles fluttering around him in frantic waves. He rode it out, relentless, not giving her a second to come down.
Before the last tremor had left her thighs, he flipped her onto her stomach with effortless strength, pulling her hips up. The new angle was deeper, more brutal. She buried her face in the pillow, her cries muffled. He draped himself over her back, his mouth at her neck.
“Mine,” he whispered into her skin, the word a vow and a brand, as he drove her up and over the edge again. This peak was longer, a drawn-out sob of sensation that left her boneless.
He finally found his own release with a harsh groan, spilling into her, his teeth grazing the junction of her neck and shoulder—not biting, but pressing, a phantom of the claim he could make. He collapsed atop her, his weight driving her into the mattress, both of them slick with sweat and spent.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of ragged breathing.
Slowly, he rolled off, gathering her limp form against him. He kissed her damp temple. “The bath,” he stated. “We need the bath.”
She could only nod, utterly wrecked.
He carried her. Lifted her from the bed as if she weighed nothing and strode through the connecting arch into the stone-ensconced bathing chamber. A vast, sunken tub was already filled, courtesy of some silent servant. Steam rose in gentle curls, scented with rosemary and pine.
He stepped in, sinking down with her in his lap, the hot water a shock to his system. She hissed, then melted, her head lolling back against his shoulder. He began to wash her with a strange, focused tenderness, his big hands smoothing soap over her breasts, her belly, between her thighs. She was pliant, letting him manipulate her limbs, her eyes closed.
“You’re quiet,” he said, nuzzling her wet hair.
“Thinking,” she murmured.
“About?”
She was silent for a beat too long. “How different you are.”
He stilled. A sliver of ice pierced the warm haze. “Different from what?”
She tensed, realizing her mistake. Her ears went flat. “From… from last night. You’re more… sure.”
It was a poor lie. He felt it. A fragment of memory stabbed behind his eyes—a glimpse of a corridor, her retreating back, a feeling of cold irritation. He blinked, and it was gone, leaving only disquiet.
He turned her in his lap, water sloshing, until she straddled him. Her eyes were wary now. He cupped her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks.
“I feel sure,” he said slowly, searching her face. “With you. It’s the only thing that makes sense.” He leaned forward, kissing her softly, a contrast to every other kiss they’d shared. When he pulled back, he tried for lightness. “Besides, a wife as pretty as you? I must have been a champion fool before I hit my head.”
The joke fell flat. A wounded look flashed in her eyes so fast he almost missed it. She forced a smile, leaning in to rest her forehead on his. “Don’t say that.”
He didn’t understand the hurt. But he could feel the fragility of the moment, the delicate glass bubble they were in. So he shifted his hands to her hips, guiding her down onto him once more, a slow, water-slicked joining. This time, it was she who set the pace, a gentle, rocking rhythm that was more comfort than conquest. He let her lead, his hands roaming her slick skin, watching the play of steam and shadow on her face as she found her pleasure again, quiet and sweet this time.
After, as she drowsed against him in the cooling water, he stared over her head at the stone wall. The bruise on his temple throbbed in time with his heartbeat. The warm, golden certainty of the morning was now tinged with a cool, gray thread of doubt. She had known a different man. A man he could not remember.
And she was lying to him about who that man had been.