Arawn somehow found himself sitting on the couch in Maeve’s cabin while she cleaned the few of his injuries from the fight with the griffin that hadn’t yet healed. Completely unnecessary, seeing as those wounds—really, they were barely more than scratches; none of his internal organs hung out, and he wouldn’t even have to regenerate a limb—would close and disappear within the hour.

But he’d be damned if he told her not to put her hands on him.

Well, more damned than he already was…

So he sat, patiently, choosing wisely not to remind her how fast he healed. Instead he watched her face while she dabbed at the scratches with a cotton ball dunked in hydrogen peroxide. Studied her lips, pressed together in concentration. Counted the freckles sprinkled over her nose and cheeks. And those lashes… Unable to resist, he reached up and brushed a finger over them.

She stilled in her ministrations but didn’t draw back. “What is it with your fascination with my eyelashes?”

“They are copper-colored.”

A twitch of her lips. “I can’t be the first redhead you’ve met.” Her voice became deliberately casual. Too deliberately. “I’m sure you must have come close to a lot of gingers’ lashes over time.”

“None of them were yours.”

Her cheeks blushed rose. Those mesmerizing coppery lashes lowered, lifted again, revealed eyes of liquid fire woven with tendrils of smoke. “I thought you dangerous before,” she murmured, laying her free hand on his shoulder while she disinfected another scratch on his chest, “but for wholly different reasons than I do now.”

“Oh?”

Her throat muscles worked as she swallowed, and he had to lock his entire body in order to fight the impulse to lean forward and lick over that creamy skin.

“I had no idea,” she continued, “how much of a threat you’d be to a woman’s senses.”

He allowed himself a self-satisfied smile.

She tilted her head. “You heal fast, don’t you?”

“Yes. But this serious wound here needs your attention.” He tapped a scrape on his abdomen.

There was that almost-smile again, lighting up her eyes. “Well,” she said, her voice a tad huskier than usual, “I certainly don’t want to ignore your needs.”

And then she knelt in front of him, in between his legs, to dab at that negligible, blessed scratch. Every single muscle in his body tensed to the point of pain, his powers writhing under his skin. Her fiery hair teased him, invited his fingers to tangle in the strands…to tug and hold fast. He curled his hand to a fist instead, added this position and the erotic embellishment of the fantasy that went along with it to the list of things he would do with her. Later.

“I think,” he said, releasing the stranglehold he had on his powers just enough to twirl a dark vine of his energy around her, “you are as much of a threat as I am.”

She looked up at him, and the impact of that eye contact, in that position, nearly made him growl with sensual hunger. Not breaking that searing connection until the last second, she leaned forward…and kissed the scrape.

The touch of her lips on his skin, the heat of her breath, sent a bolt of molten lust straight to his groin. His hardened cock twitched against the fabric of his pants. Breath coming unsteady now, he allowed himself to stroke that hair of silken flames when she drew back—and he made sure she saw his hand before he touched her, knew it was him. Her lids half lowered as he caressed her hair, running his fingers over her scalp in sinuous moves.

Still, her posture held a whisper of tension, of apprehension, as she regarded him from between his knees.

“In time,” he murmured.

She nodded at the reminder, her shoulders relaxing.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” she said after a moment, her voice a little shaky from his caress. “The bobcat…it healed so fast. I do, too—even though not quite as quickly as the cat—and I was wondering if maybe that’s because I got some of your healing power when I bound myself to you, and I transferred it to the bobcat? I’m not sure, but I think my blood dropped on its open wounds when it scratched me.”

He twirled a lock of her hair around his finger. “My blood needs to be ingested to catalyze any self-healing of the body. Mixing it with someone’s blood is not enough.”

“But…” She frowned. “I didn’t drink your blood.”

He inclined his head. “Whatever healing power you have is your own.”

“Huh.” Her brows shot up. “Fancy that.”

“I believe,” he said with silken sensuality, “there is another brutal gash on my back.” More like a bruise, probably, but who was he to split hairs?

She pursed her lips, humor glinting in her eyes. “Of course there is.”

Picking up her cleaning and disinfecting supplies, she stepped onto the couch, kneeling behind him as he scooted forward. Her hands slid over his back, and he closed his eyes for a moment, his magic humming inside him.

“What was the griffin doing here?” she asked after sizzling silence filled the space between them for a few heartbeats, her hands languidly busy with tending to his “wounds.”

“I assume it sought you out.”

He could feel her frown.

“But,” she said, “how did it even find me?”

“Power draws power. It must have felt yours awakening.”

Her fingers glided over his shoulders. There were no scratches on his shoulders. “And where was it before? How come no one has…mentioned a beast like this roaming around? If it was out there already, it must have been seen by at least one person.”

“As to where it slept”—he tilted his head to the side when she stroked up his neck, her touch sending fiery pleasure cascading down his spine—“it was likely a natural place of magic. And I think it has not been awake for long, otherwise there would have been more widespread accounts of sightings. As it is, I am not aware of any reports, though it is possible a few humans saw it, but had their stories dismissed as fantastical illusions.”

“Like those people claiming to have seen UFOs,” she muttered.

“I suppose it probably spent much of its time in the air, and did not venture into or near human settlements, thus avoiding attention.”

More silence wove between them while her hands mapped his back, featherlight strokes and tentative caresses, each touch at once soothing and heightening the hunger clawing at him from the inside.

“What will happen now that it’s awake and…out there?” Her fingers curled into the hair at the back of his head. His eyes nearly crossed at the sensation. “Where will it stay?”

The griffin had flown off again soon after Lucía woke up, but he could still sense it nearby. “It will linger close to us, given that is has bonded with me and seems to feel some sort of kinship with you.”

“How did you bring it to heel?”

“Power recognizes power.”

An irritated tug on his hair. “Stop being cryptic.”

Most anyone else would find themselves choking on the floor for that. In Maeve, each moment of familiarity and daring annoyance with him was a step worthy of celebration, of praise.

“It senses that the strength of my magic is a match for its own,” he said. “And it will heed my command because part of my power lies in authority over all things wild.”

A beat of silence, her fingers stroking down his neck again. “Are you saying you’re some sort of horse whisperer for beasts?”

The laugh rising up from his chest surprised him. “That is one way to put it.”

The soft pressure of her leaning into him, her front resting against his back.

He held his breath.

Her arms slid around his shoulders from behind, hands gliding down to his chest. Playing with the hair that dusted his front, she kissed his nape. “Laugh again.”

He turned his head to the side. “Make me.”

The air between them sizzled, charged with the slow build of a force that could consume him.

“When I was drowning in the memory of my dream of you,” she said, her breath fanning over his neck, “and didn’t want to give in, I tried to fight it by imagining you dancing in a princess dress in the woods.”

He choked on another laugh, his shoulders shaking under the sweet weight of her arms. “It appears it did not work as intended.”

“No.” A dark grumble. “That dream superimposed itself on everything else.”

Chuckling, he reached for her hand, played with her fingers.

“I was wondering,” she murmured, responding to his touch with equal play. “What does the griffin eat?”

“In ancient times”—he shrugged—“anything and everything that moved.”

She stilled. “Humans, too?”

“I recall they were quite easy for the beasts to catch.”

Her breath left her on a whoosh. “That is…horrible.”

He frowned. “It could get messy these days, yes. Human casualties are notoriously hard to cover up.”

Silence.

“You don’t care about humans,” she whispered. “Do you?”

He didn’t like the chill that pinged along the bond. Half turning his head to her again, he said, “They are not my priority, no.”

“So you consider them dispensable.” Not a question, but a quiet statement, laced with a hint of bitterness.

She withdrew her hands from around his neck, and her retreat cut into pieces inside him that had been softened by her trust, her affection. When she moved out from behind his back, stepped off the couch, he itched to grab her and pull her to him again. He remained still, knowing the move would shred what was left of her appreciation for him.

He leaned back instead, laid both arms on the backrest of the couch, studying her as she looked out the window. “You care for them?”

“Of course I do.” Soft conviction in her tone, a silent backbone of steel underneath her gentle appearance. “I certainly don’t want them to be killed and eaten, whether by demons or some mighty beast.”

He could have figured as much. After all, she was brought up among witches, in a community long considered the last bulwark between the safety of humanity and the threats of otherworld creatures—not by accident, but by design.

He was about to reply when he received a mental message from Deimos.

Sire.

Speak. His second wouldn’t contact him while Arawn was with Maeve unless it was important.

Ms. Morgan is here.

He pursed his lips. Good. Is she ready to meet?

Yes, sire.

Bring her here.

Understood.

Deimos closed the mental pathway just as Arawn rose from the couch, stepped closer to Maeve, who was still gazing out the window, her arms crossed.

“I would like to introduce you to someone,” he said.

She looked up at him from underneath those glorious lashes. “Who?”

“Someone with the skills to help you.” He inclined his head. “If you wish.”

Her fine ginger brows drew together, but she followed his lead as he ushered her out the door and over the bridge to the slope beyond it. Deimos approached with his guest at that very moment, the fireflies’ glow above the forest path shedding enough light to reveal a petite female wearing business attire.

Arawn nodded at his second, and Deimos left with a murmured word to Ms. Morgan before they reached the slope where Maeve waited, her widened eyes not on the female but on the male accompanying her. As soon as Deimos disappeared down the path again, Maeve’s posture relaxed.

“Ms. Morgan,” Arawn said. “Welcome to my lands. I assume your journey was uneventful?”

“Smooth sailing, my lord.” The female bowed, the light of the will-o’-the-wisps floating over the bridge gleaming on her jet-black hair, which she’d pulled into a tight chignon.

“I would like you to meet Maeve.” He nodded at his witch beside him. “Maeve, this is Tashia Morgan. She is a licensed psychotherapist who specializes in counseling survivors of trauma.” He made a pause. “Incidentally, she is also a demon.”