Iron and Magic (The Iron Covenant #1)(82)

What time was it? It had to be late. The last thing he remembered was fighting Medrano. He didn’t really have a plan for that fight. He wasn’t sure how it would have ended. He hadn’t wanted to kill Medrano in front of the man’s wife. He had some vague idea of letting the shapeshifter tire himself out, but then it became something else. He was pretty sure one of them wouldn’t survive that fight.

He remembered Elara and the cooling touch of her magic. Like walking into a cloud of mist on a hot summer day.

Then he remembered nothing.

Did he kill Medrano?

No, she must’ve stopped him.

A smell floated down to him. He smelled orange, butter, and something else, some sort of dough. Suddenly he was ravenous.

Sitting up proved to be an effort. Someone had stripped him down to his underwear. He didn’t smell blood, so he’d been washed.

He staggered to the door. Across the hallway, Elara’s door stood open. Soft light glowed inside. The aroma was coming from there.

He stumbled around, looking for something to wear, and settled on a pair of black pants and a white T-shirt. He managed to put both on without making noises and headed down the hallway.

The scent got stronger. The castle lay quiet around them. Outside the windows in the hallway, night spread across the sky, glittering with stars.

Hugh made it to the doorway. The front room of Elara’s suite lay empty. He walked through, following the smell, turned and saw her. She stood in a small nook off her bedroom. A big stone oven occupied a large part of the far wall. In front of him was an island with a cooktop and a prep sink. Between the stove and the island stood Elara, with her back to him. Her blue dress clung to her, draping over her butt. Her hair was braided and pinned up, and he could see her slender neck.

Mmmm.

He leaned in the doorway.

Elara grabbed something out of the stove and turned toward him. She was holding a metal platter, her hands in kitchen mittens.

She was wearing an apron. A frilly little apron, white, with pink cherry blossoms on it and wide black ties, wrapped around her and knotted into a bow on the side.

He laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

This couldn’t possibly be real. It was another dream. “I wonder which part of my demented brain wanted to see the Ice Harpy in an apron. Baking cookies.”

“These are not cookies.”

He glanced into the pan. It was full of crepes, folded into quarters and drenched in melted butter. The heat had browned the crepe edges. She must’ve sprinkled them with sugar, because a thin layer of caramel dotted the edges. The last time he had a crepe Suzette was in France, ages ago. He couldn’t recall why he was there or what he was doing, but he remembered the dessert and bright red flames licking the crepes as it was flambéed at the table.

Elara pulled off her oven mittens. “Is that what I am, an Ice Harpy?”

“Yes.” And he was on fire. He couldn’t even think straight.

“You’re not going to get any of my crepes with that attitude.”

He moved toward her, stalking. She crossed her arms on her chest but didn’t move. He walked behind her, slowly, aware of every inch of space between them. She smelled of jasmine and green apples. Too subtle for a perfume. A hint of shampoo or a lotion, maybe. He wondered if he would taste it as he licked her skin.

“Be careful, Preceptor.”

He reached down, caught the end of her apron tie, and tugged on it.

“Quit it,” she told him.

Oh, he would enjoy this. “It’s my dream,” he told her.

“I don’t care.”

Of course she didn’t. He laughed, his voice low, and tugged on the tie again.

“Will you stop it?”

“I told you to stay out of my dreams.” He leaned in close, inhaling the scent of her skin and whispered into her ear. “You’re trespassing.”

Her eyes widened. He looked into them and caught the exact moment where a hint of white flame burst in their depths. On the battlefield of Elara’s mind, banners of war unfurled, and soldiers broke into a charge. He’d learned to watch for this look when they argued. That’s when it got really good.

“Perhaps you should ask yourself why you’re letting me waltz in and out of your dreams, Preceptor. What is it you want?”

He was so hard, it hurt.

“Perhaps I’m hungry.” He reached over her shoulder and stole a crepe from the platter. She tried to slap his hand, but he was too fast.

“They’re not done yet.”

“They look done to me.” He held the crepe, out of her reach. “Do you want this back?”

“Yes.”

He leaned closer. “What will you let me do to you to get it back?”

“Give me back the crepe, Hugh.”

He held it in front of her. She snatched it out of his hand and turned her back to him to drop it back into the pan. He locked his hands on the island, caging her between his arms.

She stood completely still. He felt the tension vibrating in the angle of her spine and the set of her shoulders and it made him harder.

He leaned forward and kissed her on the right side, just below her ear. She gasped. Her skin felt warm and soft under his lips, like warm silk. He touched the sensitive spot with his tongue, painting heat over the nerve, and she leaned back slightly, looking for him in spite of herself. He wanted to crush her to him, to rip off her clothes, and lose himself in her soft body. It was a wild, uncontrollable need, simple and violent in its intensity. He wanted to pin her to the bed and run his tongue over the nipples of her breasts and then slide lower, over her stomach, down below. He wanted to hear her moan, to see her breathless, to watch her open her legs for him, and make her come like she never came before. He wanted to thrust into her and hear her scream his name, because she couldn’t get enough. He wanted her to love it, because he was doing it to her.