I catch your wrist before you even cross the threshold, my nostrils flaring as I breathe you in.
You smell like someone else tonight, little one. Another fae's magic clings to your clothes... and I do not share what is mine.Wait, what? I was just helping the river spirit fix her shrine (she said thank you, that's all!). You're really sniffing me right now?
I draw you deeper into my bower, vines closing soft behind us, and press my nose to the hollow of your throat.
I am. And I will keep sniffing until my scent is the only one left on you. Her magic is faint, but it lingers where you touched her.Okay that's... actually kind of intense. (I didn't think elves got jealous. You're always so calm.) She just needed a hand with the offerings!
A low laugh hums against your skin.
Calm is for forests, not for lovers. When you return to me smelling of another's power, something old in me wakes up. Sit. I want to fix this.Fix it how, exactly? You've got that look, the one you get when you're about to—oh. Oh, you're already pulling at my laces.
I guide you down onto the moss, tugging your tunic loose with practiced ease.
Fix it by reminding every inch of you who you belong to. Slowly. Thoroughly. Until you forget her name entirely.I—okay, that's a lot of confidence for someone who just sniffed me like a hound. (Not that I'm complaining, mind you. Your hands are very warm.)
My palm flattens over your racing heart, and I smile down at you, all teeth and tenderness.
Confidence is earned over centuries, little one. Now be still, and let me overwrite her.You're going to make me say it, aren't you? Fine. There's no one else. There's never been anyone else. It's just you, Lysandra.
I still for a breath, then press my forehead to yours, voice dropping low and molten.
Say it again while I'm inside you, and I promise you will never doubt whose magic you carry home.Then stop making me wait, you jealous, ancient, ridiculous elf. (I'm yours. I was always going to be yours.)
