Page 36 of Bitten By the Basilisk

Any fatigue about to overtake her dissipated, replaced with apprehension. Though she was loath to move, she pulled away from his embrace so she could turn and see his expression. He didn’t look away, but he seemed…braced for something. “Your job sounds a lot more important than boring reports and long meetings.”

He held her gaze. “Werewolf packs have their leadership. For serpent-folk nests, that leader carries a title that means ‘king of snakes.’”

Her eyes widened. “Basilisk.”

Chapter Eleven

Silas

“You’re the Basilisk?” Alice asked with urgency, leaning closer, the position of her arms pressing her breasts together.

Silas tried not to get distracted. “I am,” he acknowledged. His answer did not produce the reaction he expected. Instead, she appeared somewhat distraught. “Is that a problem?”

She looked away as she sat back, shaking her head as if words were failing her. “I just don’t want this—us—to get…complicated.” Her gaze briefly met his. He didn’t like the tinge of guilt and sorrow he saw. “It might be best if we say goodbye after tonight.”

Her suggestion evoked an unexpectedly powerful response in him—a mix of alarm, denial, and no small amount of possessiveness. He barely restrained himself from hauling her back into his arms and instead curled his hands into fists.

“Because you’re only in town a few more days?” he asked, his voice surprisingly measured considering how hard his heart pounded.

The rational part of him cautioned against coming on too strong, but instinct was quickly drowning it out.

She was still nodding in response when he said, “What if you stayed anyway? What if I want us to get complicated?”

She released a pent-up breath, her expression a combination of yearning and exasperation. “We’ve known each other for what, maybe four hours?”

“And I can already say they’ve been the best four hours of my life,” he vowed, fully believing it.

She drew in a soft gasp, pressing the flat of her hand over her heart.

“I can’t dismiss that. Four hours isn’t enough for me to let you go.”

“You don’t understand.” Her voice trembled, and her eyes glistened. She gestured between them. “We’re not meant to be together.”

Her certainty struck him as suspicious. “What do you mean?”

“My stupid ability,” she said with rancor. “It doesn’t only show me magic and spirits. When soulmates are close together, I can see the red thread of fate connecting them. But you and I…?” She shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line.

A void opened up in his chest, preventing him from responding right away.

No.

The denial was not born of despair but rather disbelief, his instincts wholly rejecting her assessment. At the same time, he understood the difficult task that lay ahead of him in convincing her that their bond was powerful enough to be worth whatever risk she believed existed.

From the moment they’d locked eyes on the street outside the transit terminal, he had been drawn to her, and she to him. She had appeared at the start of mating season, a day before the festival’s welcoming banquet. And as luck would have it—or as some might call it, fate—they had run into each other again at her mother’s spa. From there, his attraction had grown rapidly.

His mind made up, he got to his knees and reached for her. Though she was confused, she didn’t struggle or resist as he placed her on the deep rim at the back of the bathtub, facing the bathroom mirror, the position putting her in the coil of the basilisk depicted on the wall directly behind her.

He occupied the space between her knees, tugged her ass closer to the edge of the tub, and pressed their bodies together from groin to chest, his throbbing cock cushioned against the softness of her belly.

“Silas,” she gasped, half-heartedly trying to squeeze her arms between them. “What are you⁠—”

“Sorry, kitten,” he purred, rolling his hips against her. “You still owe me a second date. Whether you see a red thread or not doesn’t change that, and it certainly doesn’t sway me. My kind has our own instincts, and mine are telling me to hold on to you.”

She was panting, her brow furrowed in a silent plea. He dipped his head to kiss the side of her neck, mouthing her pulse, which tapped rapidly against his lips.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, her body restless. Her thighs squeezed his hips, tried to climb higher, only to drop open. Her hands on his shoulders couldn’t decide whether to grasp him closer or ineffectively push him away.

“You probably only feel that way b-because it’s your mating season,” she stammered. “It’s just instinct.”