His expression says he doesn't believe me, but he doesn't press. Instead, he dries his hands on a kitchen towel and moves toward the living room, leaving me to follow.
He stops at the door, turning to face me again. In the dimmer light of the entryway, his features look more angular, more dangerous—reminding me that beneath the charming, cooking, bread-baking exterior is something wild and powerful. Something not human.
And Is he seriously planning to walk out like that? Half-naked in just those sweatpants? My neighbors would have a field day with the gossip. Miss Private-Keep-To-Herself suddenly has a Nordic god wandering out of her apartment at night.
"May I come back?" he asks, breaking me out of my mental sweat-pant-spiral.
I should say no. I should tell him to stay away. "I don't think that's a good idea," I say like I should.
"Perhaps not," he agrees. "But I'd like to anyway."
I start to nod, but he steps closer. So close I can feel the heat radiating from his bare chest, and can smell his intoxicating scent of earth and pine and wolf.
Slowly, giving me every chance to pull away, he leans down and brings his face to the side of my neck, just below my ear. He inhales deeply, his breath warm against my skin, and every nerve ending in my body seems to fire at once. That warm humming sensation beneath my skin intensifies until I'm certain I must be glowing with it.
Then he pulls back, his eyes slightly more golden than they were a moment ago.
"You smell like heaven," he murmurs. "Like wildflowers after rain. Like a midnight snowfall. Like everything I've ever wanted."
I should step back.
I really should.
Instead, I stand frozen, caught in his gaze like a deer in headlights, my heart hammering against my ribs. Something shifts in the air between us. A tension that wasn't there before, or maybe was there all along but neither of us had acknowledged it.
His hand rises slowly and gently tucks a damp strand of hair behind my ear. His fingertips barely graze my skin, but the contact sends sparks cascading down my spine. For a second, I think he might close the distance between us entirely, and more startling than his proximity is the realization that I want him to.
Something flickers in his eyes. Awareness, perhaps, of how close we stand to a line neither of us is ready to cross. He takes a small step back, though it seems to cost him considerable effort. His hand falls away from my face, but the warmth of his touch lingers.
"If I stay any longer," he says, his voice a low rumble that I feel more than hear, "I might forget all the reasons why I shouldn't stay."
The raw emotion in his words steals my breath. We're caught in an impossible space. Whatever this is between us, it's dangerous for both of us.
He reaches for the door handle, breaking the spell. "Goodnight, Astrid Mathieson," he says softly. "Sleep well."
And then he's gone, the door closing quietly behind him, leaving me standing in my entryway with the ghost of his breath still warm on my skin and the lingering scent of beef stew and freshly baked bread in the air.
I press a hand to my neck where he almost—but didn't quite—touch me, wondering what the hell just happened. Wondering why I let it happen. Wondering why, despite everything I know, everything I've been trained to do, I'm already hoping he'll come back.
"I am so screwed," I whisper to my empty apartment, and head for the shower.
CHAPTER 20
Killer Birds
* * *
Fenrir Thorsson
The scent of death hits me before we even reach the tree line—a rancid mix of rotting vegetation and decaying flesh that makes my wolf stir uneasily beneath my skin. I take another swig from the silver flask of ambrosia, the burning liquid doing little to improve my mood after three fucking days of searching for Astrid.
"By the gods," Cormac mutters beside me, his glamour momentarily flickering as he reacts to the stench.
"Another," I growl, crushing the now-empty silver flask in my fist and extending my hand. The metal groans under the pressure before I shove the crumpled remains into my pocket. Cormac passes me a second flask with a knowing look that I pointedly ignore.
Three days since she vanished from her apartment without a trace. Three days of Maven hacking into GUIDE's secure servers while I paced like a caged animal, snarling at anyone unfortunate enough to cross my path. When Maven finally tracked Astrid's new assignment to this godforsaken Louisiana bayou, I was already halfway out the door.
We stand at the edge of what should be a vibrant forest, but instead of teeming life, we face a landscape of death. Trees that should be draped in Spanish moss now stand blackened and brittle, their branches reaching toward the sky like the fingers of a corpse. The undergrowth has withered to ash-colored husks, and the swampy water that should pulse with life lies still and oily in stagnant pools.
