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"It's part of the Oath of Sword to your house.” His tone is grudging, but I’m not imagining it. He’s definitely softening to me.

I stare at him for a long time, slightly hot and slightly bothered.

"Oh, you're gonna tell me that's not true, too? I can see it written on your face that you're ready to argue with me, lass. Or do you suddenly know more than I do about this? Do you need me to just leave you here to your own devices?”

All the hot and bothered leaves my body at once.

“You're literally driving me crazy already, and I spent at least an hour making you this breakfast after the first thing I heard this morning was you screaming 'fuck' all because you saw my naked tits!"

He gives me a dark look. "Look at your finger then, if you don't believe me," he says.

I glance back down at my finger and gasp. Sure enough, the raggedy flap of skin that was there is gone, and in its place is a fully healed thumb, pink new skin where the wound was.

"Our first stop of the day won't be a bookstore, lass, I can tell you that." He inspects the thumb, looking proud of himself.

"Why, are you afraid I'm going to get a fucking paper cut?" I flutter my eyelashes. “You’re just dying to spit on me again, I can tell.”

I shouldn’t have said that last part.

His cheeks go ruddy, his chest rumbling with what sounds like a growl.

“Sorry,” I hold my hands up in mea culpa. “I didn’t mean to make you grumpy again. I worked too hard on honey biscuits to ruin the day.”

He snorts a laugh, surprising me. "Our first stop is for a real knife. A nice, clean, gold, gem-encrusted knife for doing the kind of blood magic you're clearly hopping off your rocker to do."

"'Hopping off my rocker'?" I repeat. "That doesn't even make sense. That's not even—don't even—" I hold my hand up to him. "That's not even a Scottish phrase, so don't even try to act like it is."

"How do you know what's Scottish and what's not?”

“I think you're just flustered, 'cause I said tits. Tits, tits, tits, tits, tits!"

I smack my boobs, which I regret, because it does, in fact, hurt a little bit. After an awkward moment, I put my hands on my hips. His eyes are still on my boobs, probably because they’re still jiggling.

"Are you ready to go?" I try to make my voice normal, as though slapping my tits in a show of dominance is a normal thing to do.

"Are you gonna keep hitting your breasts?" he asks, a half-smile inching up one side of his mouth. "Or am I going to have to restrain you from doing damage to the person I'm supposed to be protecting?"

"You're fucking outrageous," I tell him with a laugh. "And no, I'm done hitting my boobs because it hurt, not because you told me to."

"Och, I didn't think I'd be dealing with a wee toddler today, but it looks like I've got babysitting duty after all."

That makes me laugh because he's not wrong. I am acting a little bit like a toddler.

"Alright, well, here's the thing," I say, holding up one finger. "You're gonna have to warn me before you spit on me or lick me to heal me again, because that's just... frankly..."

I struggle to find the right word, shaking my head back and forth along with my hand for a couple beats before I finally compose myself. "It's just gross is what it is, okay? It's just—it's gross."

"Aye, lassie, I'll ask your permission before I put my tongue on ya."

Something about the way he says tongue sends heat of a different kind down my neck, straight down my spine. I glare at him for a moment, wanting to ask him what exactly he means by that, then think better of it, make an exasperated sound, and turn on my heel.

"What exactly is that fucking cat you've got there?" he says.

I pick up Kirk, covering his little kitty-cat ears with my hands. "Don't talk about him like that!" I say, scandalized. "He's my cat. His name is Kirk."

"Kirk? What kind of a name is Kirk for a cat, too? Jesus, you're right off your rocker."

"Oh, oh, my rocker again, huh? Is it like a rocking horse, like a toddler would ride?"