The Weaver's Source

Chapter 36

After I had eaten dinner and bid Arthur goodnight, I wandered through the strange hallways back to my room. I had expected to be alone again and be able to curl up under the covers, to wonder about Grigore and his bursts of absence and his constant foul moods recently. I had not expected him to be there.

I entered my room to the fire burning brightly in the hearth opposite my bed and, in the chair in front of it, sat Grigore. Normally he slept in the next room if he wasn't out hunting during the night so I froze at the sight. He was sitting heavily, dressed lightly and unarmed, his legs extended before him with his large hands clasped lightly together. For the first time, he looked exhausted, his shoulders sagging and his song distant, almost dead. I felt a stab of worry at the sight. Grigore was a powerful man, intimidating. He looked wrong. I slipped over to him, thinking he might be asleep when he didn't respond to me, but found his eyes half open, staring at the flames.

"Grigore? You're not sleeping in your own room?" I questioned, careful not to crowd him too much

His eyes flickered over to my face but then returned to gaze at the fire. He remained quiet. I frowned. He often did this, just ignoring my questions when he wasn't bothered to talk, but he was here for a reason. I took my kirtle from the bed and settled beside him, working at the frayed ends quietly. The longer I sat in his presence though, the more I began to feel my magic. Normally it was quite calm around Grigore there days, the only time it reacted was when I heard his own song or if he got much too close, but it began to react. I felt it creeping out of my chest and moving into every part of me, filling me with a horrible need to reach out and touch him. I found myself constantly glancing up at him and struggling to keep my hands to myself. I kept my fingers working deftly, slipping the thread in and out of the cloth, hoping the sensation would leave my body. But it wouldn't. It just kept growing and growing as my magic became more insistent on touching him until I couldn't ignore it anymore.

"Is something wrong, Grigore?" I asked, gearing myself for a fight.

I glanced up as he shifted, leaning forward with his elbows pressed against his thighs, his fingers flexing and his expression thunderous.

Abruptly he was on his feet and striding out of the room but my magic screamed at me to stop him. Before I knew what I was doing, I had latched onto his hand. He became rigid as his attention snapped to me heatedly, his jaw tight with anger, but something carnal burned behind his hooded gaze, stark with hunger. I didn't quite know what to do next, it was like I was facing a storm and I fought my magic back as it swamped me, heating me up with a burning desire to kiss him. I wrestled to remain calm. Something was wrong with Grigore. I could feel it. He didn't feel right. His song was too quiet and he was full of too much anger.

"You came in here for a reason." I said softly, trying to soothe him a little. "Talk to me."

He didn't speak for a moment, his gaze just silently slipped over me possessively, burning over every curve I had on display and turning my skin pink.

"Get out of my head." He growled out dangerously.

I pressed my lips together in confusion. He'd said this before; that I was trying to control him. Suddenly I regretted not pressing the issue sooner and getting to the root of it.

"What do you mean?"

His muscles tightened, bunching beneath this shirt as if he was fighting to keep himself still, and his gaze grew hungrier, darker, almost dangerously so. "You know exactly what I mean."

"I really don-"

His hand grasped my wrist and he yanked me forward, causing me to almost fall into him. I was caged to him roughly, an arm surrounding my waist and a hand buried in my hair, keeping me still and facing him. His eyes were filled to the brim with frustrated anger and need, his jaw tense and his body swamping mine, pressing me into him, ensuring I felt every inch of him clearly. My whole body was on fire, my magic singing with excitement, quickening my pulse and making my skin burn for him to touch me, but I kept my bare hands curled at his chest, resisting the urge to touch him.

"Grigore?" I whispered nervously.

"I'm not a lustful man, Lyra, but since the first time I met you, you've been in my head. You've sung to me, made me taste you, made me want you, made me dream of you." He snarled huskily. "It's getting irritating. These last few days have been hell for me and you somehow keep making it worse. You're singing to me louder every day, you keep making me frightened for you with that bloody bow and that fever, you keep getting close to Arthur in ways that makes my blood boil. Whatever you're doing, stop it."

Red faced at his angry raw words, I abruptly understood. It was my magic that was in his head, not me. It was treating him how it had treated me since I could remember, telling me what to feel and do, making me dream of him in ways that made me want to hide my face, but I was used to it. He wasn't. Worse, he thought I was doing it on purpose, and it was making him defensive and angry with me.

"I can't stop it." I said thickly, my breath coming in short bursts from the nerves that were fraying and the desire kissing me. "The magic; it's its own."

That wasn't what he wanted to hear. His body grew tense about me and the hunger etched on his strong face deepened. My magic grew worse, swelling over my tongue, urging me to have him.

"You need to make it stop, Lyra, if you want to continue by my side. I'm not yours to control. I won't lay down my life for you, I won't fear for your safety, so get out of my head."

"I can't. That's not how it works."

Something in him snapped. His eyes flashed and his head darted down, only to stop inches from my mouth. My heart was pounding hard, my lips parted and every inch of me begged him to just hurry up and kiss me.

"Break the spell." He growled hotly, his voice catching with need. "Or I leave you here."

Before I could utter a word, Grigore had let go of me and stormed from the room, slamming the door hard behind him. I flinched at the sharp sound and stared at the door blindly. My face burned and my chest heaved with every fluttering breath and still, despite Grigore having gone, my magic sang. It twittered about, urging me to follow him, to chase him down and hold him, to never let him go. I kept myself rooted to the spot however, refusing to budge.

"He needs space." I hissed when it pressed hard against my stubbornness.

But it continued to cry out for Grigore, making me feel a little sick by the frantic motions. Anxiety pressed and I recalled how tired he looked, how his scent was thinning. He was worrying me.

I sucked in the smoke-scented air in the room and flexed my fingers before gradually stripping, ignoring how hot I felt and the familiar wet warmth that had gathered between my legs; heat that needed Grigore.

I gently curled up under the blanket and squeezed my eyes shut. I'd talk to Grigore again once he'd calmed down, explain to him how my magic worked, that I wasn't trying to control him and had no desire to. I hoped that would be enough. While Arthur had been kind so far, I didn't want to stay here. I wanted to go with Grigore.

That night I dreamt of Grigore for the first time since I'd found him again, full of hot kisses and possessive hands, and I wasn't entirely certain the magic was the cause.