“Sorry,” she says when I release her face, opting instead to comb her unruly hair behind her ear. “I’m just really tired. We can talk about whatever you came to talk about in a couple hours. Please. I just ... need sleep.”
“Shut up, Monika.”
“What?”
“Just stop ... talking.” I’m speaking through clenched teeth, and my hands are tense. She winces as my claws dig into her body, and I spasm, my anger self-directed as I grumble out an apology. I carry her across her apartment, back to her bedroom and the en suite bathroom—which is even bigger than mine, I find.
I set her down on the marble countertop between the his-and-hers sinks. The fact that only one sink has anything surrounding it pleases me in ways I refuse to acknowledge. I run the bath, stoppering thetub. It’s a claw-foot—must have been custom installed, because my tub is built in and looks totally different. Everything about her place is eclectic, at best. There are crystals and candles lined up on little golden stands all around the outer edge of the tub. I think about lighting them but find my ears burning at the thought.
Instead, I return to her and watch her try to focus on me with bleary eyes. She’s swaying where she sits, exhausted in a way I don’t fucking like. She looks nothing like the woman I had underneath me last night. She looks like that tough woman’s soft insides. It’s ... hard to look at. She’s way too vulnerable, and when I tap her hip and she lifts it, giving me space to pull her sweats down and then off, the electricity burning in my chest burns hotter and releases from my horns in a burst.
Monika jumps. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” I glance at the mirror behind her and see that my eyes are a color they’ve never been before. White. And they’re blazing. “Arms up.”
When she lifts her arms, I peel the shirt off her, noticing that she’s still covered in my scent. I’m reluctant to bathe her for fear that it’ll fade. And then I decide I’ll just make sure to give her a reason to smell like me later. And every other day.
I blink and realize I’ve got one palm pressed to the side of her face, cradling her cheek. My jaw clenches as I glance down again at her naked body, reminded that she left the house without a bra, underwear, or socks. She must have been really scared. And I was upstairs sleeping more soundly than I’ve ever slept in my life. I firm my grip and yank her off the counter more roughly than I intended. I all but toss her into the bath.
“I’ll be outside,” I mutter quickly. “Shout if you need anything, and don’t fucking drown.” I slam the door shut behind me.
I’m on edge as I enter her kitchen. I’m surprised to find it well stocked. I start cooking quickly—a simple Western omelet with ham, green peppers, onions, and grated cheddar, a few spices, and butteredtoast. I don’t want to linger. I’m not hearing as much noise coming from the bathroom as I feel like I should.
I’m damn near running, her steaming plate in hand, as I reenter the bathroom. She’s standing on her shaggy bath mat, water dripping down her body. My mouth dries and I don’t like it. I don’t like anything about this. I don’t want to have these impulsive, automatic reactions toward her, but I’m clearly a sex-starved lunatic who lost his mind last night in the courtyard of Sundale’s South Korean Embassy.
I set her plate down long enough to grab a towel off the golden hook shaped like a paw and wrap it around her. I dry her off clinically. Well, as clinically as possible. I don’t breathe as I drop to one knee and slide the soft towel up the insides of her legs. Then I drag it over her bruised inner thighs and swollen mons quickly, taking an extra second to spread her lower lips just to make sure she’s not bleeding. Relieved to find that she’s not, I tip my chin up and plant a lingering kiss on her beautiful mound, sucking her lips into my mouth quickly before releasing her.
She whimpers and sways forward, trying to catch herself on my shoulder, but I’m already standing up, hanging her towel, and carrying her back to her bed. I lay her against an armada of brightly colored pillows, wrench the blankets down and then back up over her lap. I place her plate on her thighs, hand her a fork and a glass of water. And then I sit on an appallingly garish aqua-colored velvet love seat positioned near the full-length window.
The curtains are parted now, letting in early-morning sunlight. It’s seven thirty. At least, it was when I last checked. I should still be asleep upstairs in my bed, and so should she. I glare at the offensive way the sunlight caresses her bare skin, tickles her face. Her hair is combed back away from her forehead. I don’t know what she ordinarily does with it, but I can see it starting to dry puffy. I open my mouth, about to offer to help her with it, but then clack my jaw shut immediately when she takes her first bite.
She moans. The sound is brief, and low. It stirs a feeling deep in me. Not a sexual feeling this time, but something just as satisfying. Icookedfor her. I’ve never cooked for anyone.
“This is really good,” she says softly. Far too softly. “Thank you, Darius.”
“Darius,” I say, correcting her on instinct when that was what she called me in the first place.
She smirks. “That’s what I said.”
“Good,” I grunt, emotion rushing through me. If that was weird, she doesn’t seem to notice.
She resumes digging into her omelet right away, a quickly muttered, “Thank you, Darius,” her final word on the subject.
And absolutely destroying me.
I sit there like a sycophant and watch Monika’s eyelids grow heavy. Her shoulders eventually stoop, and she drops her fork in the center of her plate. She damn near licked the plate clean, and I dislike immensely the pleased way I feel as I take it away, force her to down half her glass of water, and then tuck her under the sheets.
My desire to crawl under her hideous bedspread is strong. She’s so weak and soft, pliable and desirable. My fearsome warrior has shed her armor, and I’m surprised to find her so trusting underneath. She doesn’t kick me out. She doesn’t do more than smile at me sleepily as she rests her head on her pillow wordlessly. She doesn’t use words she doesn’t need.
Instead, she lets me watch her fall asleep.
I sit there far too long after her breathing has deepened and her eyes have begun to twitch underneath closed lids. She has long eyelashes, I notice, with a strong natural curl. She looks good without makeup. And without a bra. I just want to touch and caress.
Pretending to have some self-control, I get up, clean the dishes I used to cook for her, and step out onto her balcony with my irritation in check. I pull my phone from my pocket and dial a number I dread.
He answers on the second ring. “What do you need, Taranis?”
“Presumptuous of you,” I growl, slamming Monika’s balcony door shut and then pulsing electricity through the lock until it melts. Though the odds of anyone but me breaking in via her balcony are slim, they aren’t nothing. Since I live in the building, I actually have air sensors built in to detect any incoming flying objects—creatures—that would dare approach. But if I’m not on-site and she is, there’s still the reality that the sensors could be triggered, and I might not make it to her in time to stop anyone from doing ... something. And they just might, now that she’s captured my interest, as I’m sure the entire world likely knows after last night.
