My Mate Can't be a Bird! (I swear I'm not into that kind of stuff)

22: Fae Male Nom-Noms Female, Does Not Reccomend

Rowan

The soft evening light slipped through the windows.

Birds chirped their sweet songs into the air.

Rowan walked with grace through the corridors of Mistward.

Ignoring his bruises, Rowan entered his room and went back to his pile of unopened letters: secret correspondence from spies; news from far and wide; Lorcan updating him on what was going on internally, so he wouldn't be out of the loop once he was back. Just simple things of his daily routine.

Lorcan's had coded messages he had to decode by hand, so  he took out a glass pen and began to switch the letters and numbers according to the chipher.

As he read, he tried to get his mind off the...

...the Incident.

This morning in the forest

Rowan staggered back, mind still hazy from everything. An angry female was snarling at him, eyes blazing, blood dripping down her shoulder. Her aura was of fire and embers, her magic pulsing in the air like a deadly beast. At any moment, she may decide to take his life.

Aelin had shifted.

Rowan also shifted uncomfortably between his feet, suddenly aware of a certain body part that made this trousers feel too tight. Ducking his head, he stared intently at the very unsexy ground.

The bond between them still sparked. He had just bitten his student, felt her up and rubbed up against her like some lustful drunk boy. The humiliation washed over him in waves, until he wished the earth would just open up and swallow him whole.  Instead, he tried to steel himself and cleared his throat.

The fae, who had started to gaze out at the mountains, turned her head quickly and growled low in her throat, keeping eye contact; daring him to come closer. Her canines flashed in the sunlight, eyes spinning with molten gold.

There you are, Rowan thought, breathless.

Aelin was the textbook definition of ideal Fae looks—long golden hair; the longest legs he'd ever seen; the most beautifully sculped face, as though shaped by the goddess of beauty herself— and Rowan tried very hard to not stare and drool.

No, he told himself. No more acting like a lecherous youngling. He had tasted the fire in her veins, the steel in her soul—and the male who she made love to each night before she had come here. Her lover. She belonged to someone too. Her blood still coated his mouth.

Maintaining his distance, he raised his hands up where she could see them. This was his first time witnessing the Heir of Terreasen's power, and she had quite a lot of it. Deadly as Rowan was, he knew she was capable of pulverizing him within seconds.

Well...she had finally shifted. At least that may be a good way to start.

Her magic cackled, finally free from the mortal form. It was wary and inquisitive, sparking here and there, exploring its surroundings in the way it hadn't been allowed to in ten years.

Unwillingly, Rowan found it captivating—and so did his magic, which spouted out to play with Aelin's own aura.

But he could feel wariness from her, beneath the surface. Wariness and steadily rising panic. She would lose control—or burn herself.

"Let it out, Aelin," He murmured. "Don't fight it. Here."

He gently cocooned her with his own magic—a shield and guide to help hers calm down.