The moment June steps throughmy door, every instinct I possess starts roaring orders at me: Claim her. Protect her. Feed her. Keep her warm. Show her you’re a worthy mate. Pin her down and bind her in silk until she’s helpless and perfect and mine.
But my careful studies tell me: Be polite. Don’t scare her. Be mindful of your strength and size. Ensure she enthusiastically wants this.
It’s exhausting being a predator with social anxiety.
“Let me take your jacket,” I say, which sounds perfectly normal until I realize I’m looming over her like I’m about to devour her whole. I force myself to step back, giving her space, even though everything in me wants to draw closer to her.
June shrugs out of her wet jacket, and I’m reminded again how small she is. How fragile. The scarf I gave her makes her look even more delectable, like a gift I’ve wrapped for myself. The thought makes my silk glands twitch with interest.
I could have her bound and displayed in minutes, spread wide and helpless while I learn every sound she makes. We needn’t waste time with pleasantries—
Down, predator. Not yet.
But as I take her jacket, I notice she’s shivering slightly, and her clothes are damp from the rain. The adrenaline from her near-death experience is probably wearing off, leaving her exhausted and cold.
“You need to get warm and dry,” I say as I hang her jacket. “And you should rest. That was a significant trauma you just survived.”
She looks like she might argue, but then a particularly violent gust of wind rattles the windows, and she nods. “That does sound good. I’m running on adrenaline right now, but I can feel the crash coming.”
“The guest room is downstairs,” I say, leading her down the hall. “It has its own bathroom, so you’ll have privacy.”
The guest room is at the end of the hallway, a comfortable dwelling with all the furnishings a guest could need, soft colors, and windows that face the sunrise. I’ve kept this room immaculate for years despite never expecting a guest. Now I watch June’s face carefully as she steps inside, searching for approval in her expression.
Her eyes widen slightly as she takes in the king-sized bed with its plush duvet and the tasteful mountain landscape painting on the wall, all carefully selected based on home decor magazines I’ve studied.
“This is… really nice,” she says, trailing her fingers over the wooden dresser. “I expected something more…”
“Webby?” I finish for her, noting how her pulse jumps when I say it. “No, I keep my weaving and web-spinning isolated to the cave in the back of my home. Though I can make an exception if we’re feeling adventurous later…”
She blushes furiously at that, and I can smell the sudden spike of arousal in her scent.
Fascinating. The memory of her caught in my web is clearly still fresh for the both of us.
“The bathroom has everything you should need,” I say, gesturing to the door. “Towels, soap, shampoo. You should take a hot shower and rest. The mountain isn’t going anywhere, and neither are you.”
June nods, still looking a bit overwhelmed. “Thank you. I appreciate all this.”
“Your clothes are still damp. I could make you something to sleep in while they dry.”
“Make me something?” She raises an eyebrow. “You keep offering to create clothing for me. Should I be flattered or concerned?”
“Flattered,” I say immediately. “Definitely flattered. Vyders only spin for people who matter to them.”
The admission hangs between us, heavier than I intended. June’s cheeks flush pink, and I can smell her pulse quickening again.
“In that case,” she says softly, “I’d be honored.”
I nod and step toward the doorway before I can do something stupid like offer to help her undress. “Take your time. Rest as long as you need.”
With that, I retreat to my workshop in the converted cave system that connects to the main house. My hands and legs are already moving, spinning silk into soft, loose pants and a tunic that will drape perfectly on her smaller frame.
The work is meditative, and it gives my overcharged instincts something to focus on besides the fact that June is in my home, taking off her clothes.
By the time I’ve finished the sleepwear and slipped back into the guest room to leave it on her bed, she’s well into her shower, the steam curling under the bathroom door, carrying with it her intoxicating scent. It makes my mandibles click involuntarily, and I have to force myself to retreat to the kitchen and try to focus on something else.
Food. I can focus on food. Surely after her nap she’ll be hungry, and as is customary for a Vyder, I must prove to her my ability to provide for my mate.
I stare at the modest groceries Celeste brought this week and try to figure out what constitutes an appropriate meal. The Internet has very specific opinions about comfort food, so I decide to start there…
