The Weaver's Source

Chapter 68

He stirred when he felt my gaze on him, his attention slipping to me. "What is it?"

"You don't seem to like the noise much." I blustered, nervous that he'd notice me. That I was looking at him again.

"No. I prefer less people." He muttered. "I was never the social one. That was Sorin's job."

I paused. I'd never heard that name before and curiosity stirred. "Sorin?"

Clearly he'd said something he didn't mean to when I felt anger burn in him and his eyes darkened as he sharply shut down, so I swiftly changed the subject, hoping to soothe him a little.

"Back home, Gabi was the talker while I hung back or avoided the town altogether." I said, tucking a damp strand of hair behind my ear. "But I like this. There's something warm about it."

Grigore was quiet and I thought maybe he'd withdrawn from the conversation until his magic curled, calling to me softly with his honeyed taste. His eyes were fixed on me, glittering with faint hunger and deep interest as he gazed at me, flittering over my features. My magic woke a little, burning the tips of my fingers and filling my mouth, quickening my pulse with nervous excitement. I quickly looked away, focusing on my clasped hands.

"Yes." He eventually agreed deeply, his attention not shifting from me as his magic continued to call to me, making my blood roar in my ears and unbidden thoughts of him kissing me swirl.

Then abruptly his magic and quiet hunger retreated, leaving my skin tingling in the wake of my settling magic, and he rose without a word. He gathered up his sodden cloak and glanced at me questioningly. I quickly pushed the food aside, suddenly not finding my appetite now butterflies filled my stomach.

I trailed after him like a shadow, dodging flailing arms and grasping hands as the drunk tried to pull her into a hug and get me to dance. Grigore would tug me closer though and glower at them, quietly chasing them off with a gruff rejection. Feeling his hand firm about my wrist and his body close to mine as he herded me through the crowd just made my heart flutter nervously and my cheeks burn. My mind was full of Milcent's words of keeping his bed warm and memories of his hunger last night and of his protective embrace this morning kept floating into my vision, making me clumsy and trip over my own feet. Keeping me close to his side, Grigore guided me to our room, warm from the fire Milcent had begun long ago.

I plonked myself on the bed, pulling off my well-worn boots as Grigore locked the door. He moved to me, sitting heavily beside me and pressing his elbows into thighs, pinching his nose and tightening his jaw as his eyes closed. I looked up at him curiously, testing his mind and finding it a hot mix of things; guilt, hunger, frustration, contentment, stubbornness. It swirled sickeningly inside him, worrying me. Just out in the food hall he'd been fine.

"Grigore?" I called softly. When he stiffened and still refused to look at me, I shuffled closer and pressed my hand against his taut arm. "If something's wrong, talk to me. I'll help you."

I wasn't sure he was going to respond until the emotional turmoil stilled and hunger grew hotly in him. His hand snatched at mine, tugging me against his arm roughly and grasping my chin, forcing my face to meet his. I was some inches from him and my whole being was growing hot and flustered by his gaze. His eyes could sometimes be quite intense, I was well aware of it, but not this bad. His eyes were almost black, full of dark need and glittering with deep frustration. His mouth was still etched into a frown but oddly that just made him more attractive to me. I was itching to feel his face, trace his scars, to brush my lips against his. My whole body warmed at the idea of his hands touching my skin and tracing my curves. It craved for it. I craved for him.