Page 12 of Glitched Fates & Stolen Mates

“Here you go, sweetheart,” Rory crooned, pulling the lid off Freddy’s cup.

Freddy immediately stuck his tiny snout into the coffee and began lapping at it like a cat. Which was disturbing on multiple levels, considering he was a zombie ferret, brought back to unlife with Issac’s necromancy. The sight of his matted grey fur and visible bone patches always made my stomach turn slightly, but Rory watched with the devoted expression of a proud parent.

“Freddy insisted he come with me to Fat Cat’s again. It’s Wren’s fault—he keeps feeding him bits of chocolate chip cookie every time we go. But when he saw Wren wasn’t in today, he went mental and bit the barista.”

I almost laughed. I’d have to text Wren to tell him that. He was the only person aside from Rory who thought Freddy was cute rather than a creepy, psychotic creature of death.

“Theo’s late,” Seb said, checking his watch with his particular brand of vampire impatience that suggested someone was about to get a strongly worded lecture about punctuality.

“He’s not,” Rory replied without looking up from Freddy. “I can feel him. He’s just about to come through the bookcase.”

It had been months since Rory and Theo had returned from Scotland as lovers. What happened up there was truly a mystery to all of us. From my first day at Killigrew Street, Rory had always hated the London Met detective, calling him Detective Dickface… to his face. Completely unfair, really, Theo’s face wasn’t shaped like a dick at all. His face was nice, his stubble always perfectly trimmed against his dark skin.

It had frightened me, the intensity of Rory’s anger towards Theo, the way Rory’s entire body would go rigid whenever the detective’s name came up in conversation.

But all seemed forgiven now, and the pair of them were just as sickeningly in love as Seb and Flynn. Rory could even sense his whereabouts, apparently. A “wolf thing,” he’d explained with a shrug, like supernatural GPS was perfectly normal.

The bookcase at the far end of the basement began to swing inward with a soft grinding sound. Theo emerged from the hidden passage, running a hand over his springy coils, which he’d let grow longer than usual.

“Sorry,” he said, straightening his jacket. “Got held up at the station. New case came in that’s…” He trailed off as his sweeping gaze landed on me. “Felix, what happened to your face?”

“I’m absolutely fine!” I all but screamed at him.

The room fell silent. Theo stared at me intently. Crap. The telepath was probably reading my mind to see what on earth he’d missed.

Being the only human working with a bunch of supernaturals really was bloody exhausting sometimes.

“Right,” said Seb, clearing his throat. “As Felix is absolutely fine, should we begin?”

5

Kit

Ifumbled with the buttons of my grey cardigan, fingers clumsy as I tried to cover my bare chest. I needed to hide the evidence of my complete loss of control.

Fucking hell, what have I just done?

Priya’s dark eyes bored into me from across the room. I could practically hear her voice already: “Really, Kit, you won’t tell him how you feel, but you’ll strip half naked in front of him and stuff your shirt in his face?”

The shame hit me, fierce and all-consuming. I couldn’t look at Felix—couldn’t bear to see whatever was on his face right now. Confusion? Disgust? Fear?

Seeing him fall was like holding kindling to a lit match. All my careful control, all my practiced distance—it all went up in smoke. Inevitable as gravity. Unstoppable as breathing.

But now I’d burn for it.

Seb started flapping around with his leather journal, trying to call the meeting to order while everyone else busied themselves with their coffees. Thank Christ for that distraction. I pulled my face into what I hoped was a neutral, bored expression.

Inside, I was dying.

I’d just physically assaulted Felix. Physically assaulted my mate. Because surely that’s what it was called when you started stroking someone’s face—their cheek, their lips—for absolutely no good reason, after practically pinning them to an armchair against their will.

If he thought you were “a bit weird” before, now he definitely thinks you’re a madman.

But I couldn’t help it. This was the only time I’d ever properly touched him, skin to skin, aside from that one time at Christmas where our hands had accidentally brushed for approximately half a second. When I’d realised that cleaning his wounds might be the only time in my entire life I’d get to properly touch him, something desperate had clawed its way up from inside me. My fingertips had been determined to drink in every second, mapping the sharp line of his cheekbone, the soft curve of his bottom lip.

The wolf in my chest prowled restlessly, satisfied and frustrated in equal measure. It had tasted what it wanted—what it needed—and now it was hungry for more.

How could the others not see it? How could they sit across from Felix every bloody day and not notice the way his eyes went impossibly wide when he was startled—like a deer caught in headlights, all dark lashes and vulnerability? How did they miss the way his bottom lip caught between his teeth when he was concentrating, or the tiny dimple that appeared at the corner of his mouth when he tried not to smile?