bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
Their time together had grown quiet and drowsy and he had finally—finally—let himself go into the river of unconsciousness that had flowed underneath him from the very beginning. When he had finally woken, the cave had been warm and she had still been there. He had pulled her closer to him again, his mind having cleared just a little, but his feelings having remained the same. Woolf’s smile was a little mischievous as he pressed as kiss to the curve of her neck, to the sweep flesh beneath the mane.
He yawned and stretched, his magic still stretched thin but replenished by the sleep.
After a quick kiss to her jaw, he finally stood, stretching and feeling the muscles pull taut throughout his broad body. “Okay,” he finally said, the sleep making his voice husky, urging her to her feet. “We can’t stay here forever, and you need to go home.” He would keep her here if he could. He would create a haven for them both—a place for him to finally rest, to finally feel at home, to finally have some peace.
But what would be a sanctuary for him would mean nothing for her if her family wasn’t near. He knew that. Perhaps didn’t truly understand it—not the way that she felt it—but he could understand it. So finally he just nods, perhaps a little verbose than he was while half-drunk on exhaustion, but maintaining that glint in his eye. “But trust me when I say I plan on coming back to get you,” he says with a grin.
Then, without further hesitation, he cuts open his shoulder, lets the blood fall down and stain his coat.
A portal opens, splits open reality, creating a window into her temporary island home.
He touches her shoulder and they walk through it, toward her home, toward her family, and toward him. Woolf can feel the anger burning low and slow in his belly, the rage barely held in check as they step through into the decorated space. He finds the purple iron stallion, holds his gaze for a moment and feels the jealousy of their family together, the dream threat still barely held in check on his lips.
But this isn’t the time or place and he just turns to Wallace. Deliberately, he presses another kiss onto her neck before whispering in her neck. “I should go,” his voice is low and it takes everything in him to not hold onto her longer, to keep her held against him, to steal her away. “But I’ll be back.”
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
