The magic is stronger - so much stronger than he had anticipated. It throws him back into mind of when he had first met the fae woman. Rashira. She had been full of wild magic. He remembers the way the wind seemed to whip in a frenzy the moment she grew upset or he disagreed with whatever she said. It was rare in those months - years - centuries - that his head was ever his own. Usually her magic swamped him until he was in a haze of love and adoration. A willing slave to her ministrations. Some men might consider such a thing a blessing for she was gorgeous, if a bit more fey than either of the pair at the moment seemed. They looked wild with their sharp features and strange eyes but they were not as ethereal as she had been. Those were the days when magic was rampant, when iron was not so widespread and thus did not dampen the power of the fae. Archer immersed himself within such vulnerabilities so that he was somewhat immune to it, or at least it did not sicken him. It was a fail safe, a way to separate himself from the rest of his kind.

Until Blaise.

He is so caught up in the feeling of blood rushing through him and the copper and wild taste on his tongue that he does not realize that Blaise is falling. Swift as he could move, he still barely managed to prevent her from toppling backward as his arms come up beneath her own, catching her. Still, her knees jar against the ground and his eerie blue eyes narrow. Already he has begun to fail, he thinks, for his job is her protection. Still, he settles as she lays her cheek against his leg. She pulls herself up and he assists, one hand on her hip, fingers pressing in protectively. She belongs to him now in a sense that none had before. It was intimate and yet not so, an odd array of things.

There is little shyness between them and the bond seems to have separated it cleanly for she slumps against his side and he cradles her against him, struck by the feel of her slight figure against his own. There is such trust in her posture, in the slow blinking of her eyes. It is true that the blood bond ensures it, but Archer likes to think it is because she trusts him implicitly anyways. "It was," he murmurs against her hair, staring off into the wall but not seeing. Thinking. Feeling. Remembering and planning ahead.

The brush of her thumb against his lips draws his attention once more, eyes snapping down to her, and he holds his breath for a moment as she stares up at him. Does she even know the longing that burns in her eyes? There is a pause... he waits, allowing her the chance to decide despite the way his head seems to press harder into her thumb. And then she sits up and kisses him. Her lips are soft, much softer than he thought, and he presses into them like a starving man, hand splaying against her upper back to hold her against him. When she pulls away, biting her lip, he lets her go but leans closer.

And for a moment he lets her have this breath. He can see the doubt and worry in her eyes. If only he knew the true source of it. But he thinks it is only nervousness and so he soothes it but tilting her chin back up and pressing another kiss to her lips, the kind of kiss that lets her know he has no doubts. No qualms. Only a sudden aching, burning desire for her.