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He studies me for another beat, eyes dragging over my face. Would you not have wanted if no bond?
The question is so innocent I nearly choke on my spit. I can’t answer it immediately because I’m too busy having several horrible realizations in rapid succession.
One: he genuinely wants to know.
Two: he has no concept of how loaded that question is.
Three: my answer matters to him.
“I need you to understand something,” I force out before his thumb can erase my last functioning thought. “I don’t know what I am right now, or what this means for me. I’ve never… wanted another man before, or felt… whatever it is that you make me feel.”
Onyx’s fingers are still, but his hand doesn’t drop. Not man only.
I raise an eyebrow. “What?”
His blue gaze holds mine. Not human man. Not human thing. Onyx. Yours if you choose.
A slow breath leaves me. I know he’s not saying it to be clever or make my sexuality crisis easier with loopholes. He’s just telling me what he is, what he is offering, and where my choice sits.
“That’s… still a lot,” I admit.
He nods once. Much.
“Yeah, much,” I say, and I laugh softly.
He finally lowers his hand, and the loss of warmth against my face hits harder than I expected. I keep myself from chasing it by sheer force of pride. He notices anyway, and the bond gives one small pulse of pleased warmth that makes me glare at him. “Don’t get smug.”
Smug, he says, bright with curiosity. You mention smug again.
“It means proud in an annoying way.”
He considers that for a moment, then gives a tiny nod. I have a terrible feeling that he’s adding that to his vocabulary.
I point at him. “No.”
The corner of his mouth kicks up into a small smile for the first time, and on him, it feels like sunrise cutting through dense trees. I stare before I can stop myself.
God, he’s beautiful.
The thought is mine, but the second I realize it, Onyx’s eyes flare.
“Oh, come on,” I say, mortified all over again. “You felt that too?”
His expression shifts into something softer; more stunned than teasing. Yes.
I look away and rub my face with both hands. “This bond is a privacy nightmare.”
Onyx grows still at the word ‘nightmare,’ concern nudging the bond again, and I quickly lower my hands. “Not literally, it’s a joke. I just mean I’m used to my thoughts staying mine.”
Thoughts stay yours, he sends carefully. Strong ones spill. I only feel edges. Bond is not open unless you open it.
Wait, knowing that helps a lot. “So, you’re not in my head reading everything?”
No. I never stepped into your den. Little Ember’s mind is a den, too. A threshold is a threshold.
He says that with absolute certainty, as if there’s no difference between my locked cabin door and the private rooms inside my skull.
“Thank you,” I say again.
