That evening they sat around the fire, and Leonie did as she usually did—she dished out food onto everyone's plate. She felt exhausted and fizzy with energy all at once. It was as if her magic had been rubbing against Dorian's all day long, and now she could almost feel it crackling over her skin. It distracted her, and her already questionable coordination only got worse as the evening went on.
"By Mother Nature…" Marcus sighed when she knocked over another serving of cheese. This wasn't the first thing she had dropped tonight, nor the first time she had tripped over her own feet.
"Sorry," Leonie muttered, quickly scooping the pieces back onto the platter and offering it around again. Filarion accepted one with a polite smile, then, when she wasn't looking, brushed off the dirt that had stuck to it.
"Hey, kid, I think you could use a little… release," Aeson said, eyeing her with a grin.
Leonie stared at him, eyes wide. "What do you mean?"
She didn't feel tired, exactly—more like a little dizzy from all the emotions swirling inside her.
"I wouldn't get into this if I were you…" Marcus began, shooting a sideways look at Dorian, who was still watching Leonie's face in the firelight.
"Why not? All I'm saying is that Leonie's overflowing with magic. I'm sure Dorian would be delighted to help her burn off the excess… before she accidentally kills us," Aeson said cheerfully.
Nir choked on the bite he'd been chewing, Filarion rubbed his eyes, and Marcus let out a long-suffering sigh and leaned back on his elbows. At least he had tried.
"Why would I want to kill you?" Leonie asked, sounding a little hurt. She had thought the elves knew she liked them; why would she want to hurt them?
"Not on purpose, kid," Aeson reassured her. "That's what sexual tension does. Don't feel bad, it's happened to all of us…"
Leonie felt heat flood her face.
"You can be incredibly inappropriate," Filarion scolded his friend, who only spread his hands.
"But we can all sense that—"
Leonie wanted to sink into the ground from embarrassment, but before she could faint outright, Dorian got to his feet and held out his hand to her.
"Don't listen to that oaf," he said, sending Aeson a murderous look. He knew Leonie's soul was like a butterfly with torn wings. This was far too soon. She was nowhere near ready for them to be joking about such things around her.
"Come with me, please," he said again.
Leonie blinked, then placed her hand in his and let him lead her away from the firelight.
"Dorian," she blurted suddenly, turning to face him. "There isn't… there isn't… you know… any tension in me," she stammered, staring at the ground.
She had no idea why she was denying the obvious—perhaps because it didn't feel proper, or perhaps because she was afraid of the consequences.
"That's a pity to hear," Dorian said with a faint smile, tactful enough not to rub her blatant lie in her face.
"Give me your hands," he said.
Although he couldn't be sure it would work, he couldn't risk taking her onto elven soil like this. Somehow, he had to channel out her magic without letting it harm anyone.
"What are you doing?" she asked, bewildered, but she obediently held out both hands.
Dorian carefully took her small hands in his and brushed his thumbs along her palms. Then he pressed one of her hands against the tree trunk beside them.
"When I was young, my magic seemed completely untamable," he began. "Any stronger feeling and it would burst out of me; I couldn't control it at all. My father had had enough when I burned down the stables." He shook his head. "He sent me to the leader of the water-folk—Filarion's father—to learn self-control. I spent eighteen years with them. Filarion and I practically became brothers."
Leonie's mouth fell open. Dorian had never told her much about his past, so this came as a complete surprise.
"Eighteen years? That's an awfully long time! Didn't you miss your family?" She could hardly believe Dorian's father could be so heartless as to banish his own son from court.
"Measured by human years, it sounds like a lot, but I was already thirty-six then. And as the king's son, duty always came before those we loved. As heir to the throne, I wasn't allowed to be weak or unpredictable, at least not in my father's eyes." He shrugged, as if it were nothing. To him, it truly was.
Leonie, who had never been loved by anyone, decided then and there that she did not like Dorian's father. Anyone who sent their child away like that…
"And did you learn it? To control it?" she asked. Eighteen years. She had four days.
"I did. But as you've seen yourself, accidents still happen," he said, a shadow crossing his face. He still felt guilty for forcing the truth out of her.
"I'm not angry anymore," Leonie whispered, swallowing hard.
"Maybe you're not," he said softly, pausing before he continued. "But do you trust me?"
So much had happened in the last few days that she hadn't even had time to grapple with that question. She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again. Did she trust him? He had kept secrets, slipped into her mind without permission… but he had also saved her. More than once. And since that kiss…
"I'm trying," she said, barely audible, lifting her gaze to his deep blue eyes. They looked like a quiet, calm lake.
Dorian nodded slowly.
"Then maybe we could try something," he said, raising his free hand toward her face, moving very slowly.
"May I?" he asked, hesitating a few centimeters from her cheek. He waited for her to understand what he was asking, but she only stared at him in confusion. A minute passed.
"You're asking if you can go into my head…?" Her eyes went huge. He couldn't possibly be serious.
"Yes. That's what I'm asking," he replied, his tone serious, patiently waiting while Leonie turned the idea over in her mind.
Dorian was asking permission to enter her mind. The thought of him showing her whatever he wanted terrified her—but she was curious too, and she wanted so badly to trust him. He had taken care of her, looked after her… and if this helped her protect others from herself…
"Do it," she said at last, swallowing hard as her hand trembled in his.