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“I thought poisonous plants were your thing.”
“It started as an acorn,” I explain. “The damn thing should’ve been a harmless oak tree. Being able to change a seed from its origin is new.”
“What do you think it means?”
I sigh. “It means I’m not the only poisonous thing on your property anymore. Tread carefully.”
“Are you worried about me?”
“Of course not,” I snap, hating the way he flashes that smug smile again. And the way my body responds to it. “Just… don’t touch it.”
“Only if you promise to stay inside for the rest of the day.”
“What? Why?”
His expression darkens, and I can practically scent the lecture on his tongue. But then he seems to change his mind and says evenly, “Today is something called Februlune. It’s a dangerous time for anyone to be out in Tartarus. Especially those who are not familiar with this place.”
“What the hell is a Februlune?”
“It’s what we call the moon fever, and it only occurs when both of our moons are full at the same time. I believe your world has something similar.”
“The full moon on Earth calls to shifters,” I say. “I can’t recall it being dangerous.”
“That’s because the shifters of Tartarus are shadow creatures, which makes our response to the double moons more intense. Tempers are shorter. There is a decline in humanistic characteristics as the animal within drives them.”
“And this happens every month?”
“Every three months.”
“I see. So, double full moons make your people feral?” I ask, thinking about the bear. It had definitely lacked any sense of humanity.
“Not feral exactly. It’s more about mating. If you’ve identified or met your mate but have not yet claimed them, the moon fever will drive you mad with the urge to get to them. You’ll attack anything else in your path along the way.”
I study him, wary now as his words sink in. Not just the danger out there but also in here.
“You’ve identified your mate,” I point out quietly.
“Yes.”
“Do you have… moon fever?”
“Yes.”
He looks entirely calm as he says the word, and I’m not sure whether that makes him scarier than I previously thought or simply immune to me. Maybe I’m just not that desirable.
Ugh.
“Do you?” he asks.
I frown. “I don’t think so.”
His expression is unreadable, and I wonder if he’s questioning our connection too. Maybe our mate bond is weak. Or not real. Or part of this weird curse. Maybe it’s fake.
Maybe I’m nothing to him; a girl he accidentally cursed at a bar. A mess to clean up.
“Am I…” I can’t bring myself to voice those fears. Then, I’d have to admit that’s exactly what they are: fears. Because, if I’m being honest, even though I don’t want to claim him, I want him to want me.
I want to feel desired once before I die, which might just be sooner rather than later.
