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Trying to get someone like Lucanis Dellamorte to admit they liked you was a harder challenge than Rook had originally anticipated. He was bold and shy, rough and gentle, hot and cold, restraining every volatile emotion like a wild animal. But for all his struggle, he wouldn’t accept help. Now, he appreciated her help with the occupation of Treviso, he appreciated his rescue from the ossuary, but matters of the heart were different. Perhaps that was because he had a couple hearts fighting for the spotlight.
Purple light crackled sporadically around him sometimes. Spite not fully taking over, but almost like he was piping in to have his say be known. One of these times, Lucanis had been diligently dicing vegetables for the soup he was preparing. That had become a common sight ever since he’d joined the team, and Rook was grateful in more ways than one. Firstly, it meant she didn’t have to hear anymore complaints about the burnt pork chops she’d attempted that one evening just after they’d discovered the Lighthouse kitchen. And secondly, she had an excuse to keep the man company without intruding on the little hideaway he’d crafted in the pantry.
Ever since that almost kiss they shared, she could hardly convince herself to stay away from him. He was so beautiful, so daring, so impressive, so…smooth. When he wanted to be, she internally grumbled. Since then, they’d settled into an unspoken… something. And as much as Lucanis seemed to want forget it happened, it only made her more determined to not let him. But for now, she enjoyed his company in ways he seemed comfortable with. That night, it was cooking.
He’d agreed to let her help, instructing her to carefully peel potatoes with a freshly sharpened knife while he quickly diced the fresh green spices from Harding’s garden. This, the rogue thought, was something she could handle.
“I’m surprised the darling of House Dellamorte even bothered to learn to cook,” she teased, sliding a pristine white potato his way along the cutting board. “Don’t you have servants for this sort of thing?”
He snorted, a small contented smile warming his lips as he chopped up sprigs of cilantro. “Who do you think I pestered for the lessons?”
“Really?” She grinned, plucking another potato from the counter, “The First Talon allowed you to snoop around the kitchens and shirk your training? Perhaps she had a soft spot after all.”
“Don’t insult her, Rook,” he grinned conspiratorially, “It’s easier to disguise poisons if you chose the right meal to spike.”
“That’s a stretch, and you know it,” his fellow Crow snickered.
“Of course it is, but Caterina always appreciated the art of persuasion. If I could talk my way into the kitchens, then I could talk my way into a mark’s party, or past a guard.” He shook his head, a little sad and a little amused, “And she never complained when I served her favorite meals for special occasions.”
Her heart clenched. At times, she envied the Crows that were raised from children to be fledglings. Joining in her late teens had made her training harder, sterner, having to learn instinct from those who actually possessed it. But Lucanis’ upbringing made her… well. It just made her sad. How little fun he seemed to have, raised from a boy to be a prodigy. And now, his grandmother was gone, and despite her sternness, that he missed her bitterly was not hard to notice. Rook had no hands to squeeze his shoulder or pat his back like she wanted, so she gently bumped his shoulder with her own and was happy that he let her lean against him contentedly. His gaze fluttered her way, a secretive smile gracing his lips, and she gave one in return.
“Then I have just one question for you,” she grinned. His smile cautiously grew, dark eyes flitting about her face.
“And what’s that?” he asked low and breathy.
“How do I place a special order with the renowned Chef Dellamorte?” He chuckled, and she restrained a big toothy grin at her success in warming him up again. “Do you have a secret menu that I—”
She sucked in a gasp, the knife blindly sliding too far along the potato. She could hardly judge herself, as the view of his smile was leaps and bounds more inciting than the delicate task at hand. The cut it left on her thumb was thin, so thin that it took a second for the line of red to bloom outward. “Shit.”
“I’m sorry—”
“No, that was my fault,” she waved him off, reaching for a dish rag. But as did, another hand grabbed hers, forcing her to drop the potato clumsily on the counter. It buzzed subtly with magic, the glow of purple frosting his skin.
“Rook,” the demon frowned, and his hand squeezed down around her bloodied thumb. “Stupid knife!”
He picked it up and flung it at the large, empty cask, the hilt wobbling back and forth where it had driven into wood.
“It’s okay, Spite. It happens.”
He squeezed her thumb harder as if trying to stem the flow, and she barely contained a wince.
“Not with us!” He hissed, “Promised the Crow!”
“That’s awfully sweet,” she grimaced, his overbearing strength crushing the digit. He didn’t even seem notice her discomfort, “But I’m fine. Just let—”
“Must get the small one!” He started off, dragging her behind him, the joint straining under his pull. She stumbled after him like a dog on a tight lead. “The death mage! That bouncy elf! You need—!”
She yelped, certain the joint had dislocated. It was a shameful sound that had been trained out of her in her first year of Crow training, and Spite finally stopped to look at her. His other hand drew her to him, a hand on the back of her neck guiding her close to investigate the distress on her face. The light flickered for a moment, and she tried to wiggle her hand from his grip.
“Please let go, Spite.”
“Rook, you bleed!”
“Let go, Spite! Now!”
The light sputtered out as if going into hiding, and Lucanis took the demon’s place. He loosened his grip immediately, his palm stained with blood. His eyes met hers for a moment, pained and raw, their faces still close and focused on the other.
“Rook, I’m—”
The door began to swing open, and he took a step back, deliberately settling his shoulders and spine into an acceptable level of calm. When Taash shouldered their way through, the determined frown fell from their face in mild confusion.
“I heard yelling,” they said simply, eyes shifting between them.
“Rook is hur—”
“I just cut my thumb,” Rook steps over him, forcing a self-deprecating laugh, “Hurt like a bitch.”
“Ah,” Taash said, settling into one hip, though the furrow in their brow didn’t lessen, “Cutting peppers? Burnt half my mother’s kitchen last time I made that mistake.”
“Well, I’m a bit less embarrassed for my outburst in that case,” Rook chuckled. She carefully extracted herself from Lucanis entirely and held in another wince of pain as her whole hand throbbed, “I’ll run by Harding’s. Fixed up in no time.”
She made the mistake of glancing back at Lucanis. For all his skill hiding his emotions, the faint line between his brows gave him away; a swell of self-loathing was clear behind his veneer. She shot him a reassuring smile before making her way out, and noticed that Taash didn’t follow as the doors settled closed behind her.
Lucanis predictably avoided her after that.
It was so frustrating, so maddening. Every time she got close to cracking that nut (no offense intended) he found another reason to creep back into a dark corner. He was quiet at dinners, focused on missions, and elusive when all else would be socializing around the Lighthouse.
It wasn’t until Spite made himself known once more that Rook was even sure he still felt something for her at all.
In a fight with some Venatori in Dock Town, Rook got backed into a corner of her own. The quick dance of their rogues had separated her from Lucanis and Neve, the two of them focused on taking down the bloodmage commanding the unit. The whirling daggers of three different fighters sliced her way. Ordinarily, she would have done away with them methodically, simply, and they would have gone on their merry way to find more cultists to decimate. But the sting of poison hit her in the ribs, an errant dagger slicing trough her thin armor and nearly knocking the breath from her. The poison loosened the muscles in her core, and the toxin spread, her right arm moving clumsily as infected blood pumped to her nearest extremity. Another dagger cut deeper, her shoulder taking the brunt of its ire. The curare that had coated the dagger worked quick, numbing her muscles alarmingly fast. The self preservation Viago and Heir had drilled into her began to slip with each second, and she couldn’t help but to cry out as she slashed with all her remaining might.
“Lucanis!” She called in fear “…Neve..!”
She managed to drive her blade into the chest of one of the remaining attackers, but was too weak to pull the blade from his armor. But as the dread of what would happen next settled in, a faint ripple of magic washed over the lot of them, and she let herself fall to one knee in relief.
“You will not! Touch! Rook!” The demon’s voice roared like a dragon, great purple wings extending over the heads of the remaining cultists. In a blur, the Demon of Vyrantium cut the duelists down, artfully out-dancing the rogues. When he spoke again, Rook realized she’d ended up on the ground, her limbs too weak to prop her up any longer. “Must be more careful, Rook,” he chided, sounding more like Lucanis than Spite, “Back to the mirror.”
“It’ll run its course,” she slurred, but flopped back on the rooftop where they’d been skirmishing without meaning to. “Gimme a second.”
She was ignored and lifted to her feet, and when her knees buckled, she was scooped up by a strong pair of arms that still buzzed and crackled with magic. “She’ll have to sleep that off,” Neve murmured, sounding more put off than alarmed, “Venatori don’t play fair.” Rook hissed again as her shoulder and ribs throbbed in pain, but she was too lax to argue as Spite, or maybe Lucanis, flew her down to the street.
The demon and the detective guided her down a dark alley until they stopped abruptly. The purple light flickered indignantly, and finally Lucanis seemed to regain control of his increasingly tense body with a commanding, “Enough, Spite!” The purple vanished, shoo’d back into his body, and softer he assured, “I have her.”
“Right,” Neve added quietly, prodding them on towards a shortcut to the hideout “Not to worry, Spite. But let’s try not to draw anymore attention, hm?”
“He will behave,” Lucanis gritted. Rook wanted to thank them, to thank Spite for stepping in. For caring. But she could no longer speak, her mind heavy and numb with sedative, and then she was out cold.
He stayed even more quiet and deliberately aloof in the days after the fight in Minrathous. If she wasn’t a Crow, she might have assumed he hated her the way he turned to stone every time she entered a room. If she hadn’t seen Viago pull a similar moody stunt the time Teia went missing for a week on a job that went sideways, she might have given up entirely. But Rook was stubborn, and like Varric said, didn’t know when to quit.
“Lucanis?” She boldly called from the kitchen, her fingertips chill from a rush of nerves. “Can I come in?”
She waited a moment, and she was certain she could hear the man whisper half an argument back and forth to the ether. Finally:
“What is it, Rook?”
She huffed and rolled her eyes. Are all the Dellamorte’s this difficult? She squared her shoulders and hardened her resolve. She’d thought through this plan for days, and it was going to work.
“I could use your help with something, actually, if you’ve the time.”
A moment later he cracked the door, seemingly settled by the idea of a task instead of another attempt at a heart to heart..to heart. Or do spirits have hearts? Regardless, talking up to this point had been a fool’s errand.
“How can I help you, Rook?” he asked politely, his face trained as neutral as she’d ever seen it. He must have been practicing in all the time he spent brooding.
“Spar with me.”
“W-what?” he sputtered, neutrality cracked by the line between his brows.
“Spar with me,” she insisted, practicing her own brand of cool and collected. “Clearly, I need some practice.”
“You’re still recovering,” he rebutted, “You need to—”
“I need to not get poisoned again. My time away from the Crows has dulled me, and I need sharpening. And lucky me, I have a renowned Crow to get me back into fighting form. If I’m stuck to light duty, I may as well make the most of it.”
“That’s… not a good idea.”
“Why?” She grinned, he was playing his part just as she anticipated, for which she’d come prepared, “Afraid I’ll get too good and take your moniker?”
“Rook,” he said flatly, and his eyes darted away to focus on something only he could see. And by the stern frown he developed, she’d bet that something was laughing at him.
“The Demoness of Dock Town,” she pitched smugly, “Or Maker forbid ‘Second Talon’!” He sighed wearily, his hands on his hips as if disappointed in a child, but she persisted, “How Caterina would tut at her protege refusing to aid a fellow Crow.”
“Caterina is not here.”
“But you are. And I am.” He let her step closer and bully him back a few feet, though clearly displeased about her intrusion through the threshold of his hideaway. The door clicked shut behind her, and she placed a hand on his cheek, intended as a condescending gesture, but his eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment. She filed away his reaction for now, and gave that cheek a light tap, which had dark, dangerous eyes pinned on hers at once. “Now, I intend to fling barbs tonight, be they figurative or literal, and since you seem to averse to conversation, it seems you must indulge me in a duel.”
“No,” he said, as expected. What she didn’t expect was the faint crackle of purple to flicker over him, “Will not hurt you.”
She regarded him thoughtfully, preparing to tailor the plan on a whim.
“Is that Spite speaking, or Lucanis?”
“Both,” Spite’s accent bled further into their punchy response, “Promised.”
She hummed in thought for a brief moment, and sucked in a breath when they subtly nuzzled into her hand. And then she realize she had her in. That hand repeated the tap from before, now boarding on a open palm slap, bringing a snarl to Spite’s lips, but his fists stayed clenched by his sides. Her grin was broad and downright obnoxious.
“Then do be sure not to hurt me.”
She burst into action, the fight one of bare fists and rigid fingers. Spite fizzled into the background as Lucanis’ instincts took over. Most of her blows he blocked effortlessly, dancing away from her offense with a grace that took years, decades to perfect. She thrilled through the lingering ache in her shoulder where the muscle was still healing, beaming from ear to ear as Lucanis gave as good as he got— if not better. Each time he’d close in for a killing blow, he’d pull himself back, eyes sparking with purple and tamping down again, dropping whatever improvised weapon had found its way to his hand.
She laughed, utterly delighted at the chance to fight with him, to see the way he anticipated each strike, to use her force against her, to watch each muscle in her body tense up before springing forward. There were many ways to fight, but Lucanis seemed to adapt as quickly as his enemy, learning by doing, and then doing it better than his opponent. She panted as he got her backed into a corner, and finally, he broke into a breathtaking smile, a heavy bottle halted just above her head in an aborted swing.
“No wonder they got you in Minrathous, de Riva.”
She abused the opening left by his extended arm, landing a sharp punch in his ribs, briefly knocking the breath out of him. The wine bottle dropped, and she caught it midair.
“That’s a nice vintage, Dellamorte!”
“Not half as nice as you, my dear,” he purred breathlessly. She could sing out in triumph, the nut officially shelled once again. Instead of letting him rethink the comment, she doubled down, swinging the bottle in an arch of her own. This time he caught it and wrenched it from her hand, somehow carefully placing it back on the rack mid-skirmish.
Something happened then. A leg where she didn’t expect it, a fist wrenched in her shirt, and quicker than gravity would dictate, she found herself flat on the floor along with a number of food-stuffs they’d knocked from the shelves. A hand had cushioned the back of her head as he successfully and swiftly swept her off her feet, the cold stone cooling her heated body from below and head still spinning from the quick descent. With her breath sufficiently stolen, Lucanis pinned her down, the dense weight of him leaving her helpless to his victory. Truth was he won a long time ago, but she had taken enough dirty blows for his liking.
She panted beneath him, chest heaving from the chaos, annoyed that he seemed hardly affected at all. But that annoyance was swept under the rug as she met his eyes. They were lit up with mirth, carefree with an adrenalin high which she’d never seen before. His smile was easy and bright, squinting his eyes at the corners. And before he could ruin this by thinking, she surged up and kissed him.
He drew in a breath through his nose, surprised, perhaps, for the first time since the duel began. And with far less convincing than she’d anticipated, he hungrily kissed her back. The hands that had been pinning her forearms to the floor free hers up to wrap around his neck and shoulders, and one of his own tugged her closer by the back of her neck, the same way Spite had. It made her head spin, wondering if he got the idea from the demon, or the other way around. She held on tightly despite the weariness in her limbs, parting her lips to coax his tongue to meet hers, moaning in bone-deep satisfaction as she got her way. Everything was him. Body wrapped up and weighed down by him, arms full of him, mouth ravaged by him. They parted only for her to take in a needed breath, her lungs still recovering from the fight.
“Lucanis,” she breathed, pulling him back to her lips, but something changed in the brief moment apart. He jolted uncomfortably against her, and the buzz of magic tingled her skin. The kisses got meaner, clumsier with more teeth than tongue or lip. And finally, an unseen force seemed to rip the body on top of her away as if lifted by the scruff.
“No!” Spite complained, “Always no! No more no, you coward!”
“Easy, Spite,” she soothed shakily, “Everything is okay.”
“Tell him that!” Spite dove down again, burying his nose in her neck. “He wants this. Wants you. Big. Stupid. Coward!”
Her heart raced.
“Lucanis is?”
“Yes!” The demon emphatically agreed, taking in deep breaths at her neck and hungrily taking in her scent, arms winding under her back as if he’s unaware his limbs are doing it, like he wanted to crawl into her skin instead of his own obstinate host’s. “Never listens. Wants this. He dreams of you. Laid out. Naked and vulnerable. Bitter and quiet when he wakes,” the demon scoffed bitterly, “Disgusting!”
“Hey,” she nearly laughed, though her face was flushing hot, “You think I’m disgusting?”
“Not you. Lucanis. Is a weakling!” he groused, and another petulant kiss smushed against her lips. Less bitey and more pouty, like he’s trying to prove a point. “See? Press of lips. Press of bodies. Who cares? No. One. Hurts!”
“Is that why he’s been avoiding me?” she asked urgently, “He thinks he’ll hurt me?”
Guilt disrupted his scowl. “…Again.” He took her hand, the one he’d crushed a few weeks ago in his distress, and rubbed it against his beard. Her healed thumb stroked the soft hair that grew over his upper lip and down onto his cheek, and Spite’s glowing eyes fell shut. “Doesn’t trust me. Doesn’t trust him. Doesn’t trust you.”
“Me?”
“Thinks we scare you,” he grumbled, and he nuzzled back into her neck, rubbing the tip of his nose against her mindlessly, holding her tight in a stubborn hug, “Thinks we scare everyone. Demon. Assassin. Abomination. Monster.”
“You’re not a monster. You’re just… enthusiastic. Determined. And I’m an assassin, too. He knows that!”
“Of course. But! Lucanis is stupid.”
She laughed, relaxing onto the floor. She carded a hand through their hair, and Spite made a low grumbling sound in delight, burying himself as tightly into her neck as possible.
“He really can be. I don’t envy you, Spite.”
Spite snickered into her skin, and she scratched at his scalp fondly. The tension that he’d held till then fully slackened, and his full weight pressed her down into the stone. She adored it.
“I like you. Rook,” he mumbled against her skin, “Not stupid. Like the Crow.”
“He’s not stupid really, but…I’m beginning to like you too, Spite.” They were quiet a moment while she considered and Spite purred. “Spite, can he hear us? Or when you’re out, does he… go away?”
“Sometimes he sleeps. But now he wakes. Sees. Hears. His blood makes our neck hot when you speak.”
“Oh, Maker,” she muttered, her own face growing hot again, “Then, Lucanis? You can see how well Spite and I get on now. I’m not afraid of you. Of either of you.”
“Doubting. Whining, Whinging,” Spite murmured, “Pathetic.”
“Hush, you. You’re berating can’t be much help,” she snorted. Then she had another idea. “Spite?”
“Rook?”
“Get off me.”
A small hurt sound pressed into her neck, and purple eyes found hers with a pinched expression.
“Rook?”
“You’ve done nothing wrong. Just trust me,” she assured, petting his cheek, utterly endeared at how he leaned into it. “Now, get off me this instant.”
Spite lunged back, his expression still one of wounded confusion, but he rested on his haunches as she slowly made her way back to her feet. “Ah, see? No danger here,” she called to Lucanis as if he were a ghost in the small room. She regarded Spite waiting patiently for her next directions and quipped, “Good boy.”
“I am not!” The demon argued indignantly. He pawed at his neck, just under his ears, “Agh! Stop that!”
She laughed, loud and cathartic. It managed to soothe the spirit, the tension in the room cracking and crumbling into dust.
“Thank you, Spite,” she smiled, petting his hair again, and it washed away any lingering dejection. She guided him back to his full height, his hands squeezing hers (far more gently this time) and she gave him a final kiss on the cheek. “I need Lucanis back now.”
“He will give up,” Spite whined, “Pretend it didn’t happen. Sulking. Seething. Hear about it all! Day! Long!”
“It has to be his decision, Spite, whether we like it or not,” she said sadly, but she gave him a wink, “Besides, between the two of us, I doubt he’ll be allowed to forget anytime soon. Now, Lucanis, if you please.”
Spite huffed and flickered away. Lucanis was left in his wake, all dark, shiny eyes and despondency. His hands still squeezed hers, but he couldn’t meet her gaze.
“Rook…I’m…”
She pulled him into a hug at once, arms rounding the tightly packed muscles in his chest and stomach. He felt as solid as a brick wall, yet as fragile as a wine bottle. The man was handcrafted to kill, and yet she’d not felt safer since before all this had started. She wished he could understand that her enemies were in far more danger than she with the two of them watching her back. And she wished he knew how grateful she was to have them, in whatever capacity he’d allow. But she said none of this, trying to imbue her embrace with all the reassurance he’d be willing to receive at the moment.
After a moment of internal debate, his arms followed the path of her shoulders, tugging her close and secure, and she let out a sigh of relief. His cheek nestled against her temple and unbeknownst to her, his misty eyes fell shut. They stayed that way a long time, warm and quiet. The only tell he let slip was a quiet sniffle now and then, and she only squeezed him tighter or rubbed a hand over his broad back in response.
“Let’s go to my room,” she murmured against him after a while.
“Rook, this is going really…if we are going to… you must be patient with me. With us.”
“I’m very patient.”
“You challenged me to a duel. Because I was avoiding you.”
“And I very well could have challenged you sooner.”
He breathed a laugh, and she pulled back enough to meet his reluctant gaze.
“Come on, nothing salacious. But you wore me out. I’d like to lay down on something other than stone.”
“I have a bed—”
“—Or wood.”
He melted a little. He looked past her head to something over her shoulder, and moment later he sighed and agreed with a secret smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Fine. If you’re sure,” he quickly blew out the candles around his little bedroom, “To the fish tank.”
She chuckled and led the way. He followed behind her, his steps quiet as always. Enough so that she kept getting nervous he’d snuck away. His nervous little smile found her when she looked back to check, and she gave him a matching one in return. They passed the table in the library, where Taash, Harding, and Emmrich were lounging about, engaged in a soft conversation. Upon their entrance, Taash slapped their thighs resolutely, effectively interrupting the discussion mid-sentence.
“All good?” They asked, eyes darting between the two of them.
Rook frowned in mild confusion.
“Uh…yeah?”
“Good,” they said simply, giving a big thumbs up to Lucanis who fiddled with his collar.
“Does that mean the kitchen is available?” Harding asked slyly, a little grin pinching her lips.
“All yours,” Lucanis scowled, tugging Rook’s hand and all but dragging her up the stairs.
Before they left the library entirely, Emmrich marveled, “Astounding how the spirits can evolve. I’m tempted to include Spite in next year’s symposium.”
“I’m sure Lucanis would just love that,” Harding giggled.
Lucanis groaned, and Rook snickered. When they were safe from prying ears, she dragged him to her, placing a simple, unassuming kiss on his downturned lips. While it didn’t relax the tension in his shoulders, it at least distracted him from the teasing. When they parted, he rested his head against hers briefly.
“Lucanis…about what Spite said—” He interrupted her with a kiss of his own, warm and slow and smothering, and she relished it—even if it was just to shut her up.“Alright, hint taken.”
His smile was wicked and mischievous as he pulled away, and if she had to bet, she’d say Spite might just have been rubbing off on him.
She quickly changed into sleep-wear, a comfortable silky Antivan pajama set that often had her sliding of the leather chaise, and Lucanis averted his eyes— more for his sake than regard for her privacy. In turn, he removed his outerwear, shoes, belts, and pins, and quietly, hesitantly, he let himself settle on top of her where she lay with outstretched arms, mirroring the position Spite had put her in before. He seemed relieved to not speak anymore of the demon, or his feelings, for the rest of the evening. As for Rook, she would happily cash out before the house beat her at her own game. Talk could come later, when he wasn’t so raw and exposed.
Her hand began carding through his hair like it had with Spite, and a similar low grumble escaped him. He relaxed as she suspected he would, his eyes fluttering closed as the minutes ticked by. She dragged her blanket over the two of them from where it rested on the back of the chaise, and he only jostled back to awareness to help stretch the blanket out flat over them. Her stomach turned at the idea of Lucanis going without the simple comfort of a bed or restful night of sleep for well over a year. But she could change that, if he let her. And at least in this moment, he allowed it.
There in her arms, he absently watched the fish go by with stubborn, bleary eyes, the seaweed swaying hypnotically at near the bottom of the window.
“Used to hate this room.”
It had been at least half an hour since anyone had spoken, and his gravel shook her from a sleep-like trance.
“And now?”
He turned away from the wall of water, tucking his face away under her jaw. Her lazy hand resumed its petting, and he melted further into his favored nook.
“I can see the appeal,” he muffled, and she smiled to herself, sneaking a kiss to his temple. Minutes later, he warned, “Don’t let me fall asleep.” She simply scratched his scalp gently, his entire body melting to putty each time it tried to find new worries to draw it taut.
“Sleep, my sweet,” she whispered, “I’ll keep him company.”
“I shouldn’t…”
“You’re so spoiled, Dellamorte,” she grins, “Hogging the Rook all to yourself.”
“Mmmph. Someone has to keep him from telling you all my secrets.”
“I hate to break it to you, but he hasn’t said anything I didn’t already highly suspect.”
He chuckled, but commented deprecatingly, “And yet you aren’t running and screaming.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He had no response, but after a moment pressed a simple kiss to her neck. When his breathing slowed and evened out, Spite’s purple light slowly glowed back into being. But he didn’t move a muscle, staying right where she wanted him, grumbling and purring under her attention. And soon enough, his light faded too, and all the pair left her with was a soft, buzzing snore.