Page 195 of Demon’s Snack

“It responds to direction. It has been responding to direction all night.” Her thumbs press into my palms, grounding, firm, infuriatingly calm. “You are the one who keeps expecting it to bite before you give it an order.”

“That was usually a reasonable concern.”

“It was a learned expectation. Tomorrow requires better training.”

“You’re very stern for a woman holding my hands in a bedroom.”

“I can be stern in several locations.”

The heat in me shifts at her tone.

She feels it immediately.

“Breathe first,” she says.

I obey.

We inhale together, slowly enough that I feel the bond stretch and deepen. We exhale together, letting the rhythm settle before either of us moves closer. Again, breath by breath, the room narrows around us until rain, ward hum, hearth warmth from below, and the distant thunder of Vaerith’s preparations all fall into the background. Isolde’s pulse becomes the metronome. Mine answers it.

The last illusion dissolves with a soft shimmer around my temples. The horns curve black and heavy into the lamplight, edged faintly in gold where the power beneath my skin reflects along them. I stand there exposed while fully clothed. My throat tightens because some old, wounded piece of me still expects flinching.

Isolde lifts one hand.

She touches the base of my left horn with her fingertips--Carefully, curiously, and completely without fear.

The breath leaves me in a low, broken sound. Heat rolls through the bond, sudden and deep, but the rhythm holds because her other hand remains pressed over my heart.

“There,” she says softly. “No hiding.”

My eyes close. “You are dangerous.”

“Yes.”

“You’re supposed to deny that.”

“I dislike lying during important work.”

I laugh, and the hunger moves with the sound, rising in a smooth current instead of a jagged spike. Isolde shifts closer, guiding the energy with her breathing before her mouth reaches mine.

The kiss begins gently. Her hands remain deliberate: one at my chest, one tracing the curve of my horn, each contact sending power through the bond in measured pulses. Desire builds under my ribs, hot enough to challenge the ward stones around us, but I do not shove it down. I pull it inward. I let it gather beneath my command, then release a small wave through the bond and into the room’s protective lattice.

The wall beside us glows.

Isolde breaks the kiss and looks over my shoulder.

A black-gold sigil has carved itself into the ward stone, bright as molten ink. The wood around it remains untouched. The wax channels hold. The room hums more strongly, reinforced by the surge instead of damaged by it.

She looks back at me, eyes wide and bright. “You redirected it.”

“I did.”

“Do it again.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“I am academically thrilled.”

“Only academically?”