The clearing sunlight filtered in from the tall dining room windows, catching the edge of Conan's freshly trimmed hair and making it shine like onyx. I couldn't stop watching him—how he hunched slightly in his chair, trying not to meet anyone's eyes, poking at his food like it had personally betrayed him.
The contrast between him now and the night before was almost surreal.
Last night, he had cried my name until his voice was hoarse. He had gripped me like I was his entire world, buried his face into my neck like he couldn't get enough of me, and begged for more even when his body was trembling. He wanted me, needed me—and I had never known something so perfect.
I've known desire. I've controlled it, weaponized it, faked it. I've had wolves, witches and humans throw themselves at me and walk away satisfied, dreaming about me for years.
