Hunter's Season (Elder Races #4.7)(23)

His intellect wrestled with his bucking instincts. It was a tough tussle, but intellect—just barely—won.

He turned away and muttered hoarsely, “I’ll start helping by laying a fire.”

“That would be nice.”

Her voice shook, a telltale, vulnerable sound from such a strong, bright woman. The impulse to sexual aggression flared hot and insistent. His instincts weren’t going down without a fight.

At the hearth, he forced himself to go down on one knee, and he poked at the ashes of the previous fire to see if any live embers remained. He disturbed a few charred sweet potatoes, and he rolled those over to the side then quickly laid the wood. A few glowing coals remained, and soon the fire was blazing.

He straightened from his crouch and moved to a nearby armchair to tend the fire unnecessarily. The soft sounds of movement behind him seemed as loud as a shout, proclaiming that her presence was close and vital.

He glanced over his shoulder and almost laughed. The crazy woman had put more things on the table again. This time, though, he could see that it all had a theme, fruits and vegetables, so no doubt she had meant to do it. She was chopping greens.

Her face was calm, smooth, perfectly expressionless.

Reaction roared through him. He shook with the urge to stalk over, take the knife from her hand, press her up against the wall and cover her lips with his. Spear into her mouth. Anything to strip away that façade and see what really lay underneath.

Her breathing had been unsteady. She had asked him not to toy with her. Her voice had trembled when she had whispered his name.

She had not been indifferent, gods damn it.

He rubbed his face. Maybe he really had died in the attack, and a demon of lunacy had taken over his body. This kind of impetuosity was completely outside of his normal behavior and deeply unsettling.

His wretched c**k still wouldn’t bend to his rule either. The air in the cottage had turned much too close and stifling. He rose to his feet and walked out.

Outside, the early evening air was much cooler. After a moment’s searching, he found the covered well and drew a bucket of ice cold water.

First he drank thirstily. Then he dumped the rest of it over his head, gasping and shuddering as it cascaded all over his body. Holy shit. The sensation was keen as a knife, and just as painful, and a fitting way to force him to contemplate the magnitude of his own folly.

He leaned his palms on the rim of the well as water dripped off of him.

The thing of it was, he couldn’t remember a time before when he was ever this attracted to a woman. No doubt it had happened; he had lived a very long time, after all.

But that would have been a younger self in another time. A less tried, greener self.

It wasn’t here and now, where he embodied the totality of all of his experiences.

When the beauty of the spirit had come to mean so much more to him than the beauty of the body.

Where he knew a multitude of sorrows and reasons to be wary, and yet he still felt this slow burning, excruciating build-up of need.

Naida had caused him a vicious hurt precisely because he had loved her, but he had never felt anything for her that was remotely like what he was coming to feel for Xanthe. He and Naida had gone through a considered courtship, discussed together the advantages of a partnership together and had come to a mutual agreement. Everything had been very much in character, laid out, predictable.

At the time he thought it had been so very civilized, their relationship solidly grounded in friendship. Really, nothing could compare to the shock of a civilized man who came face to face with his own barbarity.

The smell of cooking steak wafted out of the cottage, and his stomach growled. His appetite for food had come back with a vengeance. It was a solid metaphor, as his appetite for other things had now resurfaced. He had sustained two serious injuries, one spiritual and the other physical, and it appeared that he would end up surviving them both after all.

As for the quiet, reserved Xanthe—he could see nothing to hold him back from going after what he now acknowledged that he wanted. He no longer had any ties or previous commitments. He was free to act on whatever he desired.

Now it was time for his own hunting season.

When she saw him step into the cottage carrying the water bucket, she rushed at him from the hearth, scolding. “You should not be carrying something that heavy so soon!”

He smiled and tilted the bucket slightly to show her the contents. “You are such a ferocious mother hen. It’s only half full. I said I would help and I mean to do it. I’ll draw all the water for the supper dishes. It will take me twice as long, but that is quite all right as there are no urgent appointments this evening.”

After glancing into the bucket, she looked up at him somewhat shamefaced. “I just don’t want you to hurt yourself any further.”

“I appreciate that,” he said, warmed by the evidence of her caring. Deliberately, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers, a full, firm, yet brief caress. All too soon, he pulled away. The sensation of her lips, softened in surprise, was branded on his mouth.

She stood absolutely still, her lovely dark eyes very wide.

He would not smile. It might reveal too much triumph. He sidestepped neatly around her and went to the basin to pour water into it. Then he went outside again. By the time he returned, she had hunched over the grilling steaks and she did not look up.

He made three more trips to the well before she set the steaming steaks on the table, and he surveyed the results of his effort with satisfaction. He had drawn plenty of water for the evening dishes. Then he turned to the table. She had created a salad of greens, fresh vegetables, apples and berries, lightly dressed with oil and herbs, to accompany the steaming sweet potatoes and steak.