powdery substance that clings to the skin of both a Gryfala and a human, and once contact is made, it heightens a female’s arousal to a painful degree. Once the mating need is slaked though, fresh wingmarks more or less offer pleasant feelings without the burning need to breed. For a time.
When the pair starts mouth-mating, I shake my horns and gaze around the canyon, furious at myself for getting in this position where I feel I need to stay here in this over-affectionate couple’s proximity in order to make amends. With a human of all things.
“Hey, Bash?” comes Gracie’s slightly lust-fogged voice.
I make a face. I could go my lifespan without hearing what this female sounds like when she’s heated for breeding. “What now? And grant me a favor: tell me quickly and then leave, because listening to you cavort with your mate is making me nauseous.”
There’s a pause as Gracie digests my words. But if she’s found insult in them, I can’t tell, because her voice is easy when she asks, “Can I observe the quarry goings-on today from your throne? It’s safer for me and the baby. Out of the way,” she tacks on, tone seemingly coaxing—but what it truly is, is baiting. I know that she’s only asking because she wants me to shake her until her neck is broken. There’s no other infernal reason she’d need to sit in my throne. It’s mine. Not some Gryfala’s, not some human’s. Definitely not this cog-damned human’s.
With slow deliberation, I turn back to the pair. Smoke tendrils unfurl from my nose and both Dohrein and Gracie’s eyes follow them, knowing my temper is piqued now. I open my mouth to speak, inhaling a sharp breath—and I catch a scent.
Sunshine, lickable citrus: Isla.
I glance down and I find her right beside me. Arguing with Gracie has made me miss Isla’s arrival!
Gripping the mug handle with two of my fingers (all that would fit inside of the tiny handle loop), I drop my eyes to Isla’s hand, a grateful growl escaping me when I find her palm empty. “Isla, I have been waiting for you.”
Isla is not immediately imbued with forgiveness upon finding that I have been waiting on her with her drink of choice. “Oh, nowww you want coffee, huh? Did you develop a taste for it?”
The scales on either side of my nose bunch as I unconsciously sneer. “I’d rather drink liquid plascrete. It has to taste better. Here.” I press the swamp juice she favors to her hand.
She doesn’t take it. “Is this an apology?”
I shove the mug at her harder. “Do you want your poison or not?”
Isla’s lips curve.
From her, it’s only the slightest of reactions—but I feel a stone lift off of my hearts that I didn’t even know was there.
Isla’s brow takes a lazy climb up her forehead. “I feel like this is an apology.”
I sigh long. Loudly. “Stop chattering at me and take your cursed mud water, female.”
She doesn’t heed my order. And rather than being afraid that I’ll drown her in this dirt-piss in a cup, she tests me by busting her figurative tail against my backside. “You could say the words,” she coaxes. “Like this: ‘Isla, I’m sorry I was kind of a dick. I’m an asshole to everybody but I don’t like being an asshole to you because it’s nice having a friend. I wasn’t thinking.’” She shrugs. “You can paraphrase.”
My voice is drier than winefruit that wrinkles to death under the sun. “Thank you for your permission.”
In answer, Isla gives me a long look, one of chiding warning, I think. I flick my ears at her, giving her a warning look.
She reads me, because with an air of magnanimity and charity, she accepts the peace offering, wrapping her hand just beneath mine on the handle, her skin brushing my scales. “I forgive you.”
“I’ll show you where your forgiveness can be stuffed,” I mutter.
Her silver gaze dances and I have to blink stars out of my eyes when she dazzles me with her smile. “And thank you. I love coffee.”
Snorting fire at her absurdness, I decide to share something I think she ought to know. “As penance, I have volunteered to help till rows of your precious coffee beans.”
Isla’s eyes brighten to a lighter shade. “Did you really?!”
Bringing my claws up, I scratch the base of an ear. “Yes. Two fields’ worth.”
“Aww, Bash!” Isla says.
Her voice is so pleased—is so heavy with approval at what I’ve committed myself to—that my