Page 43 of His to Hunt

“Why?” she asks.

“Because you’re beautiful when you’re flustered,” I grin, leaning down and kissing her forehead.

“You’re dangerous.” She looks up at me, eyes wide and shining.

“Yes,” I say, brushing my thumb over her hip. “But not to you.”

For a second, everything between us stills. No teasing. No growling. No wicked little threats. Just the bond stretching tight, warm and alive.

Then Susan’s voice cuts through it. “I found a coat that would look wonderful with that.”

I slowly turn my head toward her. She freezes. Taryn makes a tiny sound that might be a laugh.

“Bring the coat,” I say, grinning as Susan hands it over and scurries away.

The coat is long, black, and expensive enough that Taryn visibly flinches when she sees the tag. I don’t care. I put it on her myself, smoothing it over her shoulders and adjusting the collar. It transforms her again. Not just pretty. Elegant. Untouchable by anyone but me. All fucking mine. She looks like the kind of woman no man should approach unless he has already made peace with dying.

Taryn looks in the mirror, and this time, she doesn’t immediately criticize herself. She just stares.

“I look…” she trails off.

“Like you should have always been treated better,” I murmur in her ear, making her shiver.

Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. The scent of her emotion shifts. Not arousal this time. Something softer. More fragile. Something that makes me want to rip apart every person who ever made her believe she belonged in a damp basement wearing rags.

“You like it?” I ask.

“I really do.” She nods slowly.

“Then it’s yours,” I insist, rubbing her shoulders.

“But I don’t need something this nice,” she says. “It rarely gets cold around here, especially now.”

“You don’t have to need everything, Taryn. Sometimes you’re allowed to want things,” I assure her quietly.

She looks down, touching the coat. “I don’t really know how.”

“Then I’ll teach you.”

Her lips curve faintly. “By threatening to spank me in boutiques?”

“If necessary,” I chuckle.

“Is that your solution to everything?” she asks, a little playfulness in her eyes. “A spanking?”

“No,” I say, leaning closer to her ear. “Sometimes my solution is my tongue.”

Her breath catches hard enough that I smile. There she is. My mate. Soft and needy and trying so hard to pretend she isn’t thinking about my mouth between her legs.

“Victor,” she whispers.

“I know,” I growl. “Next outfit.”

By the time she tries on jeans, sweaters, skirts, blouses, and a few things she insists are too fancy, I’m half out of my mind. Every version of her does something different to me.

Jeans make me want to bend her over the nearest surface. Soft sweaters make me want to pull her into my lap and keep her warm. A green dress makes me think of forests, moonlight, and her naked beneath me in the grass. A white blouse makes her look too innocent, which only makes the things I want to do to her seem filthier.

And the red dress? The red dress nearly ends the shopping date. She steps out wearing it, and I stop breathing. It’s not as short as the black one. Not as soft as the blue one. But the color does something to her. Makes her auburn hair richer. Makes her skin glow. Makes her eyes look darker. Fucking stunning.