Page 47 of Healed By the Grumpy Elf

"What's so amusing?" he asks, his fingers playing with a lock of my hair.

"Your white sheets are ruined by pink glitter," I point out. "It looks like a unicorn exploded in here."

He glances down at the sheets, then at our bodies, both similarly decorated with sparkles, and to my delight, he laughs again. It’s a full,rich sound that I decide immediately I want to hear every day for the rest of my life.

"Worth it," he says simply, pressing another kiss to my forehead.

I snuggle closer, feeling drowsiness begin to creep over me. The events of the day, from treating Millie, to the balloon incident, to this life-changing intimacy, have left me pleasantly exhausted.

As I drift toward sleep in Lorian's arms, pink glitter twinkling around us in the moonlight, I feel a sense of rightness, of belonging, that I've never experienced before. Whatever comes next, we'll face it together.

My last thought before sleep claims me is that nothing could possibly break the perfect happiness I feel in this moment.

But boy, oh boy, am I wrong.

Chapter 14

Lorian

Thevialsoftonicclink softly against each other as I lift the first box from my trunk. Each one has been meticulously labeled by Mrs. Beckham, her precise handwriting listing all the ingredients contained in the tonic.

Morning sunlight glints off the dark glass bottles as I survey the elementary school parking lot. Parents cluster near the entrance, their children's hands clasped tightly in their own. Several pairs of eyes turn toward me, some curious, others wary. A mother pulls her son closer as I approach, whispering something that makes the child's eyes widen.

A memory flashes unbidden, palace corridors, parents drawing their children away, whispers following in my wake after the duke’s son died. I swallow hard and push the thought away.

Focus on the present, I tell myself. On the tonic. On the children who need it.

On Maeve.

Her name in my mind brings warmth spreading through my chest. Last night replays in snippets of sensation, her soft curves pressed against me, red curls splayed across my pillow, the taste of her skin, the moment our bodies joined and something profound clicked into place between us. My True Mate.

I straighten my tie with my free hand and smooth my hair, dislodging a speck of glitter that catches the sunlight as it falls. Despite my thorough showering this morning, the pink sparkles seem determined to stay.

The thought brings an unfamiliar upward tug at the corners of my mouth.

"Lorian!"

Maeve appears in the doorway, her bright-red curls bouncing as she hurries down the steps toward me. My pulse quickens at the sight of her. She wears a simple green sweater that brings out her eyes, paired with a flowing skirt splashed with tiny illustrations of wildflowers. Her cheeks flush pink when our eyes meet.

"Let me help you with those," she offers, reaching for one of the boxes.

"They're quite heavy," I protest, but she's already lifting one from my arms.

"I'm stronger than I look," she counters with a wink that sends heat rushing to my face.

As she turns to lead the way inside, I notice a small patch of pink glitter decorating the nape of her neck, just below her hairline. The sight of it there, hidden from everyone but me, sends a surge of possessive satisfaction through me.

I’m the one who put it there, kissing her soft skin.

The school's interior is a riot of color and sound compared to my clinic. Children's artworks line the hallways, construction paper creations depicting everything from families to fantastical creatures. Posters about kindness and learning adorn the walls between classroom doors. The scents of chalk dust, disinfectant, and children's snacks mingle in the air.

"We've set up in the gymnasium," Maeve explains as we navigate the corridors. "Principal Braggstone thought it would be more efficient to bring the children through in class groups rather than having them come to my office individually."

I nod. "A sensible approach. We'll need to document each dose administered."

"Already prepared clipboards for that," she says with a proud smile. "They're waiting at our station."

Our station. The phrase sounds intimate somehow, despite its clinical context.