Page 27 of Consort's Glory
Margot stood in the doorway, her back straight, her red hair swept up in a tight coil, her creamy skin glowing in the early morning sunlight streaming in from the wall of windows to his left. Keen, intelligent eyes flicked over him and around the room, assessing every inch of the space with a cool reserve at odds with her fey features, her delicate build.
She was indescribably lovely.
He was so distracted by the thundering of his heart, by the rasp of his lungs sucking in huge, gulping breaths to bring her scent closer, to haul it into his very cells, that it took him a second to wrap his brain around several key facts.
First: Margot’s creamy skin was marred by mottled bruises around her forehead and left cheek. A thin red line slid from above her temple and into her hair, the only remnant of the gash that oozed sluggishly the previous night. When his gaze ran down her bare throat — Glory save me — and down her finely shaped legs, he spied several more scratches, more bruising; all of it obscene on the skin of a healer who should heal herself as easily as breathing.
Second: She wore the same clothing as yesterday, except this time he was treated to the sight without the bulk of her coat in the way. The dress was pretty, a soft blue with clusters of blooming flowers, and shoulder straps that tied into bows that kissed the smooth curve of her shoulders. The neckline was heart-shaped, revealing just a hint of cleavage; her slight build accentuated by the curving cut.
The overall effect would have been pretty enough to stop his breathing, if only there wasn’t a deep, rusty stain running along one side of the neckline.
Theodore tensed, his claws scraping at the insides of his claw-caps, every instinct, every damn cell in his body attuned to a single emotion: protective fury.
Someone harmed his consort. Someone spilled her blood, bruised her soft skin, and he would not rest until that person’s throat was between his teeth.
“Good morning, Mr. Solbourne,” she said, like everything was normal and he wasn’t about to come out of his damn skin.
Theodore stood up from his chair, his right hand automatically moving to button his suit jacket. Only when his fingers grazed the crisp cotton of his shirt did he realize he’d forgotten to put it on. Fuck.
“Call me Theodore,” he replied, hoping she didn’t notice the aborted movement of his hand as he lowered it to his side or the rough growl in his voice. “Or Teddy. Please.”
He circled the small table to pull out her chair, his pulse thumping beneath his high, protective collar. Her gaze followed every movement, and although she tried to hide it, he caught the flicker of unease in her penny-bright eyes.
From the doorway, she said, “We talked about this last night, remember?”
“Yes,” he allowed, “but the matter isn’t settled. I want you to use my name.”
“Why?”
He swallowed. Because it would mean the world to me if you did.
But he couldn’t say that. Instead, he shook his head and quirked a brow, gesturing to the table.
Margot slowly peeled herself out of the doorway to make her way across the cozy dining room. It wasn’t even half as large as his study, and the formal dining hall where he hosted all of the heads of the elvish Families in his territory twice a year was bigger by thirty times, but it was where he spent his evenings with the people who meant the most to him. Those people were Valen and Andy. They were Delilah and her world famous consort, Winnie. They were his brothers Kaz and Sam, when he could be compelled to leave his hermitage in the desert.
And now Margot, of course.
The dining room was intimate. Private. Perhaps a risk, if she secretly enjoyed luxury, but he knew instinctively that Margot would not have been impressed by a grand dining room.
Besides, he relished being close to her.
As Margot cautiously slid into the chair, he sucked in a deep breath, hunting for the sharp smell of her. It was almost entirely smothered by the smell of expensive soap, but it was there, cloying and delicious, with that intriguing base note that tickled the back of his mind like a reminder. There was something there he couldn’t put his finger on, but he didn’t dwell on it. If things went well, they would have hundreds of years to unravel all of each other’s mysteries.
As he gently pushed her chair closer to the table, he murmured in her ear, “Keep talking like that and I’ll start to think you don’t want to be friends with me.”
He didn’t need to touch her to feel the tension pulling every one of her delicate muscles taut. Unbidden, Theodore was reminded of the way she melted into his touch the previous night; how she relaxed, almost against her will, into his hold; the way desire curled through her scent when he teased her.
Following the memory, and the accompanying flash of instinct, he clasped her bare nape and gave it a single, proprietary squeeze.
Beneath his gloves and claw-caps, Theodore’s diamond-hard claws sank backwards into his fingertips, instinct and chemistry paving the way to making it easier to knead the tense muscles of her neck. For no one other than his consort and their offspring would his claws retract. It was instinct to soothe, to gentle, to do no harm.
Margot felt incredibly fragile under his hand, but he knew she had her own claws, her own fangs. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
“Mr. Solbourne,” her voice was strained, but her shoulders were slumping, losing their rigid posture as Margot’s body recognized something her mind had not yet put together. The right response, and one his own body recognized immediately. “I am very sensitive to touch, and I don’t believe I gave you permission to handle me.”
No, she hadn’t, and he was raised by two of the fiercest elvish women alive. Delilah and Winnie were his mothers, and they adhered to the strictest, most elvish ideal of consent: If you wanted to touch, be prepared to ask or lose a hand.
But Theodore, like all elves, also understood the duality of that ethos. Elves viciously guarded their personal space, their bodies — even their clothing was designed to provide maximum protection to vulnerable areas — but the flip-side of that was the unalterable truth that they loved to fight, to touch, to fuck. The finding of a consort was as much a fight as it was a courtship, a union blessed by Glory and forged by biology-altering magic. It was constant provocation; the invasion of space and the proving of one’s worth.
