Page 96 of Nine-Tenths

One of his hands joins mine, slick fingers twining around us. "Years?"

"How long have I been coming into Beanevolence?"

The name of the café pierces the bubble of joy around my heart like a poisoned dart.

Dav twists his wristjust sowhen I don’t answer. "Five hundred and thirty seven days."

I snort. "Not like you're counting."

"They weren't all in a row," he protests gently. "That was spread out over, hm, three years? Your schedule changed every semester, and—"

"Stop talking and kiss me, you dork," I groan.

He kisses me. "You started it."

"I know, and, hnnn, I'm regretting it. Just. Yes, like that.PleaseDav, like that!"

Like thathe does, and pretty soon he's rooting around for something to clean us up with.

It turns out to be a nice soft towel—one of a stack—in his night stand.

"Optimistic, much?" I ask him.

"Prepared," he counters, and reaches across me to turn off the fucking chirping clock.

When he moves to get out of bed, I octopus around him.

"Darling, I do have things to do today," he protests with a laugh.

"I already told you, I'm not athing," I joke.

Dav sucks in a breath, clearly not taking it as one.

"It doesn't have to be like they say it is," Dav ventures slowly, sinking back into the mattress.

"What doesn't?"

Dav presses his other hand briefly over the side of my chest, right above my nipple, where the lapel pin would be if I were wearing my blazer. "We can let them think it, but we'd know differently."

"The point isn't that we know differently." I roll over to blanket his body, covering him from knees to nose, twining my fingers between his. He lets me stretch his arms above his head, kiss his chin, each bicep, the little hollow at the notch of his throat. "The thing that I take exception to is thatanyone at all, including one of us in this bed, can, in the goddamned motherfucking twenty-first century, be considered an object to beowned."

"According to dragons, you are."

"No. That's not what we have, okay?"

"Okay," Dav agrees. I don't know how that will look outside of this bed—will he stand up to other dragons if they call me his property?—but this feels like a good first step.

"Can I at least tell people that I stole you?" Dav asks with a smirk.

"Stole?"

"Your mother is Scottish, your father was Quebecois. Lower Canada, at least in language, remains the domain of Louis-Charles Roi. Your parents immigrated into Elizabeth Regina's territory and I am the victor as a result. "

I snort. "Collecting humans is not a competitive sport."

"Says you." He rolls me over, bites playfully at my cheek. "Victory for the British over the French once again! Huzzah, lads!"

"I think Mum would protest the 'again'," I laugh.