Heart's Price (MxM)

Chapter 67

"This 'naming ceremony'—is that Wolf tradition?" Ambrose asks, adjusting the collar of his shirt before the full-length mirror in our room.

I stand at his back, carefully gathering his hair into a ponytail and smoothing a few wrinkles from the back of the black silk vest he wears over a white shirt.

"It is in our family," I answer, lifting one shoulder in a shrug and then turning away to pull on my own carefully ironed garments.

A week has passed since Ambrose and Julian's return, and while our reunion is a sweet relief after months of lonely separation, it's not exactly the raging wildfire of passion I'd been expecting.

On the one hand, Ambrose has found a balance between his human side and his dragon's soul; before, it was all or nothing—either his fire was contained, or he was scaring me and turning things to ash—while now he has a far greater range of control: he can warm a mug of coffee that's gone cold, or incinerate things that piss him off.

On the other hand, he's barely touched me since he got back.

He'd started to—the first night he'd returned and a few other times—but as soon as things began to 'heat up' he'd abruptly stopped. I'd asked why, and he'd asked me, in return, to give him some time to be sure that his hard-won self-mastery would withstand the test.

"Imagine a dangerous beast," he'd said, "held in restraints, caged and chained; that's how my dragon's soul was controlled before—by the ritual, the relics, and the Gifts. Now, it's free—tamed, but not entirely trusted, just yet. If you befriended a wild wolf, no matter how gentle it seemed, would you try its civility while it ate?"

I'd had to admit that I would not; I had family members who would bite my hand off if I touched their food, and that was when they were in human form.

And I can bear to wait—I'm not a raging hulk of hormones like Dane—but even so: it's been a week, and I'm beginning to worry that, rather than resisting dark temptations, Ambrose is no longer tempted by me at all.

Now, as I dress, his arms slide around my waist, his warm breath ghosts against my skin, and he kisses the side of my neck as he pulls me close. I shut my eyes and lean back against him, signaling that I'm his for the taking, if he wants me—even if it means ruining my perfectly wrinkle-free shirt—but he merely holds me like that a moment before letting go.

"Any idea what they've chosen?" he asks, meaning Julian, Dane, and baby names.

I shake my head, hiding my disappointment with a smile.

"No idea. Although I think after my great-aunt Orfilia proposed 'Ulva and Warg,' they've put a moratorium on unsolicited suggestions."

"I liked 'Faelan and Lupita,' myself," he says, his eyes sparkling with humor as he helps me fasten the top buttons of my shirt.

"I wonder why." I roll my eyes.

Both names—one Gaelic, the other of Spanish and Latin origin, mean roughly the same thing: 'little wolf.'

"Whatever they've chosen, I'm sure it will be a perfect fit," he goes on, brushing his thumb along my bottom lip. "Those wee bairns are a precious pair."

He's not lying.

The twins—a girl and a boy—are adorable.

Their little heads are covered in a fuzz of the softest downy black curls, their skin is the lightest milky brown—a mix of Dane's dark almond shade and Julian's ivory—and they each have one amethyst and one amber eye. Both are absolutely perfect.

Even I, with zero interest in procreation, can't help but find them irresistible, and when Dane had asked me and Ambrose to be their godfathers (Julian had asked Chloe and Grace to share the opposite role) I'd felt a legitimate sting in my eyes.