𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖 | 𝟏𝟖+

xxv. the book of envoys.

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‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍'𝐒 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄. A whole new world unravels itself with every step she takes deeper into the abode. Corroded antiques and relics stash themselves in the corners of the stone walls, while lush bountiful plants grow in ceramic pots in cold dank rooms. In an area of Yestrea so obliterated by disease, the sight of something so fruitful only leaves her in bewilderment. Within the stone walls of this house is life, as well as an abundance of magic that has Elowen itching her arms to get a piece of it.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Thorn weaves his way through claustrophobic corridors, not once looking back at his guests.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"You're safe from the blight anywhere in my house," Thorn says. "But if you decide to leave, which by all means go and do, then it's not my problem what happens out there."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎There's a stairwell at the edge of the passage, but as they walk by open doors, Elowen finds herself stopping at the dining room.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎So many lush plants—vegetables on the brink of harvest, wildflowers and golden rod in full bloom. There's a robin or two chirping near a glass window, as well as a hive of bumbling honeybees. Aside from the hazy light pouring in from closed glass windows, a small table with a set of six wooden chairs settles in the centre of the room. On top of the table sits a wax wick candle, one that almost mimics the sun as the flora and fauna seem to gravitate towards it.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎With a gentle featherlight touch, Morrow squeezes her hip from behind her to coerce her to keep following Thorn up a flight of stairs.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen mumbles an apology, but can't get the thought of Thorn's gardens out of her head. So alive. So bright and untainted by evil, a complete contrast to the outside world.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Thorn trudges up the stairs. "I only have one spare room, so either you share or the hound gets the doorstep. I'd prefer it if you chose the latter."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Morrow's jaw ticks. "We'll share."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen's cheeks pipe up red. She's shared a bed with Morrow before, so what's the big deal? It'll be seven nights of a were-wyng trying to roll on top of her, or worse, one trying to release more of their built up tension from resisting the matebond. Maybe he'll opt for the floor.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Just keep the noise down to a minimum," Thorn mutters.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Thorn wanders into the upper spare room ahead of them, but Elowen can't stop the heat swelling within her cheeks. Behind her, the low husky chuckle of the alpha swarms her senses, followed by the prowl of his wolf within her head. As his breath fans against her pointed fae ear, he shoots a quick image of them through her mind, a recollection of the night of the harvest moon's festival. Her legs are parted wide, his mouth feasting upon her with such reverence.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Don't scream too loud, sparrow," he murmurs against her.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Her breath accelerates as she closes her eyes, indulging in the memory for a second too long. As if to edge her on, Morrow trickles his touch between her wings, nails tracing her vertebrae in delicate swirls.