"You did well," she whispered. She placed a bowl in his shaky hands, then—while he tried to muster strength to lift the spoon—she slid elegantly onto his lap, straddling him once more.
Her robes spilled like night water, enveloping his knees. She nestled in, not heavy but firmly present, violet hair curtaining their faces. Her smile was all bright mischief.
Mikhailis peered over her shoulder at the unconscious knight. Cerys slumbered peacefully, arms slack, chest rising in a steady rhythm. He breathed out, torn between relief and fury.
Serelith picked up the spoon, scooped porridge, blew gently. Steam curled between her lips and his. "Open," she murmured.
He opened. Warm sweetness coated his tongue; hunger made him groan. She fed another bite, then lowered the spoon to dab a stray drop from his chin with her thumb. She popped that thumb between her own lips, eyes locked to his, suckling the taste.
Heat roared beneath his exhausted skin.
