Herbalists' Cache but my aching soul

he kisses her again—slower this time, drinking in the sweet of her surrender—enjoying the pride it stirs in his chest. a well-earned victory: his. teeth scrape down the line of her jaw before he buries his face into the thick fur at her nape. her scent drowns him. his hold tightens, his limbs tangling with hers, possessive in the way he molds himself around her.

and the onyx man he watches her from where he lies, cheek pressed against her shoulder, amusement flickering in his crimson gaze. soft, he thinks, smirking. she will bite him for saying so, but it does not make it any less true. he speaks after some time, voice gravelly with desire for her that he won't yet act on.

to torture the both of them.

we will leave in three days time.

blackbird presses a kiss to her shoulder before trailing up to speak against her cheek. before she can rebutt, or ask why, he nips softly at her chin. ishmira, a wordless explanation. but he adds on: she hasn't settled in yet. she was strong, he knew this, but she was still young. still learning. and though he had no true obligation to the girl, he had brought her here. her survival, in some small way, still rested upon him.

his breath is warm against her ear as he adds, softer now, but then, you are mine for a week. and then he rolls over, pulling face away from hers, trying to avoid any further talk of ishmira. they had yet to talk about the girl, as blackfell had been avoiding it.