Arawn found her and Kelior in a clearing bordering a stream—with the griffin languidly sunning its wings between them.

The fae male lingered a healthy distance from the beast, kept glancing at it with unabated shock written all over his face, whereas Maeve sat between its feathered front legs, a book on her lap, and she seemed thoroughly unconcerned by the nearness of claws the size of sabers. The griffin inclined its head as Arawn approached, a glint of welcome in its primeval gaze.

Guard her, his powers whispered to the Old One. Protect her when I am not near.

The griffin gave him a look that clearly said it didn’t need to be told that.

Some invisible weight lifted off his shoulders at knowing he could rely on one of the most formidable forces in the world to keep her safe, and he nodded at Kelior, sending him away.

Maeve glanced up as he walked closer, her expression shuttered. Exhaustion lined her face, as if she hadn’t slept. He hadn’t sensed an outbreak from her during the night, so whatever kept her awake wasn’t enough to ignite her innate fire at least. Yet it was enough to rake claws over his nerves, knowing she was struggling.

“Are you here for more spellwork study?” she asked, reservations in her tone. Gone was the easy familiarity, the budding affection in the way she looked at him.

He wanted it back.

“That,” he said, “and more.”

She closed her book but didn’t rise to her feet, remained sitting with the griffin at her back as if lounging on a throne of primal power. It made her look like a queen of fire and fury, and he liked the sight of it so much he wanted to have it immortalized on canvas.

Memorizing every detail of the scene so he could later mentally send the image to the artist he’d commission for the painting, he put his hands in the pockets of his dress pants. “I have been pondering parts of our conversation last night.”

Something shifted in those eyes of smoke-kissed flames. “Me too.”

“Since we were interrupted, I want to get a few things straight.”

She pressed her lips together.

“I do not care for humans,” he went on. “And you cannot hope to awaken in me an appreciation for something I have dismissed for all of my long-lived life. I come from a different time, a different…place, and I will not be able to break with a way of thinking I have cultivated over the course of millennia.”

* * *

Maeve winced at the last word, at the hint of just how long Arawn had been around already. But it drove home a point she’d come to on her own since last night.

“I know,” she said to him. “And I understand.”

Despite her knowledge of how he’d been shaped by an existence on the upper end of the food chain, looking down at a race that had to be as inconsequential to him as ants were to her, she was…disappointed, above all else. And it was silly. She should have known better.

She’d simply seen so many other surprisingly different sides of him since she arrived here that she forgot just what—who—he was, always had been, the gentleness and playful sensuality he’d shown her notwithstanding. In this, in the way he regarded humans as dispensable, he was every bit the ruthless, callous Demon Lord his reputation made him out to be.

And she didn’t know if she could see past that.

Her heart ached at the thought of pulling back from him, had pained her all through the night, keeping her awake for most of it, alternating with slivers of memories that haunted her. Though thankfully not strong enough to shove her into fiery panic, those blinks of images and sensations of her time in the warehouse had robbed her of sleep for long hours.

The talk with Tashia was transformative, had started to lift a weight on her chest she hadn’t realized dragged her down until it began to vanish, but the conversation with the female demon also pulled up more memories, yet again opening wounds that had barely scabbed over.

It was necessary, she knew, because those wounds would not have healed properly—not when they were still infected. She hadn’t drawn out the poison during those months she’d attempted to self-heal, had pretended it would simply…go away. Instead, her mental injuries had festered.

“I will likely never care for humans,” Arawn said, pulling her out of her thoughts.

She was about to say, I know, and I can’t expect you to, when he spoke again.

“However”—his eyes held her spellbound—“I respect the fact that you do.”

Her breath stalled.

“And I will make sure the griffin preys only on animals from here on out.”

Heart thudding fast after it skipped a beat, she stared at him. “You can do that?”

“It listens to me.” A look out of darkly glinting eyes. “Seeing as I am the horse whisperer of beasts.”

Her world brightened in a storm of emotions, and she knew, right then and there, that she would have seen past it if it meant she got to keep seeing this side of him, as well as the teasing lightness and deadpan banter he was capable of. If she got to be the one he joked with this way.

“I’m glad,” she said, clearing her throat. “And I admit to being a tad hypocritical.”

He raised a brow.

“I like Griffin.” She petted the feathers on the beast’s front legs. “And knowing he might snack on people didn’t make me push him away.” Lowering her eyes, she added, “So why should I do that to you, when I like you a lot more than him?”

Arawn’s power thrummed in the air, a physical thing, an energetic caress for her senses. When tendrils of his magic touched her, the touch felt proprietary, staking a claim she had neither the strength nor the skill to refute. Nor the desire.

Welcoming his touch—and craving the physical one as well—she stood up, started toward him but stopped short with a frown. “Wait. Just to get this clear—you don’t snack on people, do you?”

Molten desire in his eyes. “There is one I plan to make an exception.”

She shouldn’t still flush with heat at his teasing, yet here she was, getting all hot and bothered by a few targeted words…which resurrected a number of blushworthy sequences from her dream. Unable to withstand the unadulterated force of his gaze, she glanced down as she walked up to him, grazing her fingers over the buttons on his dark purple shirt.

“Last night,” he murmured, running his thumb over her cheek, “you asked me what I am.”

She went motionless, her breath trapped in her throat. Daring a look up, she drew out the one syllable in a cautious tone. “Yes.”

“Remember when,” he went on while he drew a finger around her ear, making her shiver just right, “I told you that I was around when the Powers That Be forced the beasts to sleep?”

She nodded, her pulse ticking fast.

“There were those among the gods”—his fingers glided down her neck, sending prickling waves of pleasure down her spine—“who were not in favor of it. Some were in opposition because they despised humans, some because they cared more for the beasts, and wanted them to remain free.”

Dizziness grasped her mind with chilled, tingling fingers, her knees going weak. She held herself upright by clutching at his shirt.

“There was a coup,” he continued, and laid his hands on her upper arms—lightly. Preparing to steady her should her knees give in after all? “A sneak assault by those who favored humankind. They smote the ones in opposition, made them fall. When they crashed onto mortal lands, their powers scattered, leaving them human in strength but for their immortality.”

She wasn’t sure she was breathing anymore. Where did the air go?

“It took centuries”—his thumbs stroked over her shoulders—“to reclaim the first pieces of scattered magic. Many hundred more to gather enough to become a power once again.” His eyes harbored age-old knowledge and unrelenting patience, and now she knew exactly why. “I have almost regained full strength.”

“Oh, my gods,” she whispered. “You’re a god.”