The Weaver's Source

Chapter 7

We just stared at one another for a moment, sizing each other up. I could feel Grigore ravenously drinking me in, making my eyes turn pink and heart pound with sudden shyness. His hooded gaze swept over my body almost possessively, slipping over every curve my clothes betrayed, creeping up to my increasingly pink face only to linger on my mouth heatedly before he reached my eyes. Annoyance began take over the hungry glint in Grigore's dark eyes, snapping him to attention and forcing him back a step.

"You seem intent on getting close to the water, no matter what I say." He growled, shoving his hand through his hair roughly and not noticing how I flushed at the subtle play of muscle through his body or how he revealed the rough profile of his face to me. "What are you doing back here?" 

I didn't know what to say. I came here to tell him I was his, that I had been waiting for him for so long, but now I was here, gazing at him with his hard eyes fixed on me, I found I couldn't speak. Doubt was touching me. Dread.

"Do you recognise me?" I asked tentatively, testing the waters.

"Recognise you?" He echoed stiffly, his brow furrowing.

My heart sunk but I pressed all the same. "You don't find me familiar? My song?"

His gaze hardened and his magic growled in warning. "No."

I stepped forward, not noticing how his jaw tightened and his hand grasped the empty scabbard of the black sword, but he remained statue-like as I approached him. I let my magic sing and fill my skin sweetly, warming my body with its call as I stood before him, my gentle gaze warm.

"I'm not familiar at all?"

Grigore was quiet, his stormy eyes glittering as he watched me intently, but his magic was reacting to mine. I could feel his song slipping into me, swelling me with his taste as he reluctant twined with my own song possessively.

"Grigore?" I called gently.

The distance to his gaze sharpened and his body stiffened.

"No." He repeated sternly. "Why should I find you familiar? I've never been this far south before."

I flushed pink, panicking slightly. Was I wrong? But my magic was still purring through me, still trying to get me closer to him and revelling in his song. It had never acted like this before to another's song. It was so animated, alive.

But doubt was making me shy and strengthening the sensation of foolishness. I suddenly couldn't look at him and was desperate to retreat but Grigore refused to let me. His fingers caught my chin with surprising gentility. His song grew thick, swirling over my tongue so strongly my magic flared like fire, burning away my focus. All I could see was Grigore, how he towered over me, his stormy eyes roaming me with deep interest and his magic humming with possessive hunger.

"Why should I find you familiar, Lyra?"

Hearing him speak my name with that deep voice of his, his accent purring, just dulled my mind further and flared my magic's eagerness for me to touch him. I didn't think about rejection or how stupid I may seem. I just spoke.

"I'm yours, Weaver Grigore. Your Source."

At first his magic burned with recognition, twining with mine so tightly I couldn't help but whimper softly. His taste was too potently sweet, his magic tracing over my skin lovingly, his glittering gaze roaming me with renewed hunger. I thought for a moment that I had gotten through to him, until his mood shifted into a boiling storm. Abruptly he was pulling away, taking a wide stride back as his magic wrenched from mine, his gaze fixed on me with thick hostility.

"No. You're not my Source." Grigore growled darkly.

I blinked heavily, my mind jolting into focus as my magic swirled with confusion, disliking the growing aggression. 

"I am, Grigore."

"No, Lyra. I've no idea what you're doing to me or what witchery you're using, but I want nothing to do with it. I won't be controlled and I won't be lured to you either." He snarled as magic crackled about him, flickering about his taut body like lightning.

My heart was beating madly, my throat closing with panic. Was he rejecting me?

"Grigore, I'm not using witchcraft. I'm yours. I can help you in this hunt. I can help protect the town and Gabi." I stammered, confusion touching me thickly as I desperately tried to soothe him. "You just need to show me how."

Grigore however was growing increasingly agitated. He was pacing slightly, his one hand flexing while the other clutched the empty scabbard.

"I don't need help from you nor do I want it." He snapped coldly, his eyes flaring blackly. "Leave me. I have Ursus to find and monsters to slay so you don't get eaten."

Hurt filled me, blossoming in my gut like I'd been punched, then outrage poured as his rejection burned in me, marbling my eyes black and blue.

"I am your Source. My magic reacts to like no other! It wants to be by you!"

Grigore however ignored me. With hiss of irritation, he began to head back up the river with frustration rolling off him in heavy waves. I wasn't sure what possessed me but I followed. Determination burned and anger at having been turned away so cruelly propelled me onwards.

"Do you truly not feel anything when you look at me or hear my song? You don't feel a pull to me like I do to you?" I demanded, my nostrils flaring with rage.

Grigore abruptly came to a stop and took a couple of wide strides to come before me. He loomed, black eyes fixed on me with fiercely, his jaw tight and fingers flexing angrily, but I stood my ground, matching the ire in his gaze as best as I could.

"I've no idea what you're doing to me, but I'm not yours, Lyra. I'm my own and I refuse to be controlled by you. I'm not some dog, a thing you can command to die for you or worship the ground you walk on." He snarled and pointed to my house sitting so meekly on the hill. "You go home. You stay there. You let me do my job, then I leave. I don't want anything to do with you."

Grigore didn't say another word and I neither did I. I just scowled at him, hating how much I still wanted to be beside him, how much I wanted to touch him and how much he drew me to him. Then he left without looking back and was swiftly standing alone in the morning mists, shaking from mortification and my black eyes stinging wetly from fury.