I can hear whoever she is drawing near. There is no way I can slip out a window in time. Maybe it’s one of Grandma’s entourage, an assistant or someone who has information I can use on finding my target.
Or maybe it’s something else that compels me to step out into the bedroom before I even think of a cover story for my presence.
I face a girl in her early twenties, pale eyes framed by long dark lashes, and a left eyebrow with a permanent skeptical arch to it. Her light skin has a sprinkle of freckles across a nose that has a defiant upward turn at the tip. An ornate gold septum piercing circles under her nose. Big chunks of long tendrils have fallen out of the unruly, oversized bun atop her head. Dark circles line her eyes, and she’s wearing a Boston University sweater.
Maybe a college girl?
Pheromones and stress practically vibrate off her in visible waves.
Definitely a college girl.
She would look like every other pretty girl her age if it weren’t for her fire engine red hair. Even more intriguing is, I can’t detect any hint of chemical dye most would use to get their hair that shade.
No, she smells fucking incredible. Like honey, cinnamon, and sex. It evokes a strange response in my body. I instantly want to tear off her rumpled clothes and bury myself in her.
I’d suspect her of being a witch, if it weren’t for the fact she doesn’t stink to high heaven.
The girl blinks. “You’re not my Gigi.”
“I’m not?” the words are out of my mouth before I even think about it. A muscle in my cheek jumps as I try to suppress a smile.
Her already skeptical eyebrow arches further, as she releases the bedpost she’s been clutching. “Are you trying to tell me you are my Gigi, just gone through a few . . . changes?” The girl gives me a slow, pointed once over.
I follow her gaze down my body, as if trying to see what she sees.
My Gigi.The way this girl keeps saying it, she isn’t using the old lady’s moniker. She’s the actual granddaughter of my target.
This wasn’t in the dossier.
“I didn’t think I raised my granddaughter to be so judgmental.” I look at her from under the hair that’s fallen over my forehead and into my eyes. I can't help the smirk that forms. Excitement and heat continues to race through me..
A cautious but curious sparkle enters her eyes. “Why grandma, I never noticed what big eyes you have.”
I press my tongue against the back of my teeth. “All the better to see you with.”
My eyes run up and down her body again, and I deliberately drink her in. Fae lords, why does she smell so delicious? The suddenly hard length in my jeans is cramped, at a painful angle. It begs me to let it free.
I take a step forward and she takes a step back, but she doesn’t run.
I’m not one for games.
But right now, I am. I stalk her like she’s prey and I’m the predator. I want to paw and bat her around before taking a bite out of her.
“And what big . . . ” her eyes sweep over my shoulders down to my abdomen, “muscles you have, grandma.” I see heat behind her gaze, as pheromones thicken in the air. My mouth waters.
I take another step forward, so she sidesteps. We are caught in some kind of dance, and I want to see where it ends.
“All the better to hug you with, my dear,” I practically purr.
Her scent washes over me. There is something darker underneath her sweetness, like molasses. She’s not magic but . . . my instincts are barrel rolling and somersaulting, trying to tell me something I can’t decipher.
What is she?My senses hiss at me, demanding I find out. She smells like nothing I’ve encountered before, not mage, witch, or Were. Whatever it is, it is a siren to me. If I were less controlled, I’d tackle her on the bed and run my nose all over her body until I could make sense of this mystery.
The redhead pushes hair back from her face, as she squares her shoulders. “And grandma what big . . . shoes you have.”
My tongue pokes out to lick the corner of my mouth as I look down at my boots, then back at her. Again, I can’t fight the smile.
“All the better to—”
