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“Then why the hell are you in my apartment, asking for my help? Just go back to Europe and figure out what happened to you in 1920,” I snapped.
“Figuring out what happened in 1920 is not the problem,” he replied, his voice stern as he stared into my eyes. “Figuring out why I woke up in the middle of the forest, a hundred years after I planned to come to America to find my mate, only to have her find me is my problem.”
At this point, I was sure there was a problem with my ears. Him finding me? Me finding him?
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Chapter 3
“Are you sure you do not wish to shower also?” he asked as if he hadn’t heard my question. Lifting the pants to check them, he then tossed them back on the counter, taking off his towel to change right in front of me.
Meaning, he was naked again…in my apartment.
Not answering my questions.
Turning around, I glared at an unfinished painting of the Creation of Adam I was working on. “Is it really so hard for you to keep your clothes on? I feel like you’re trying to distract me, and it’s not going to—”
“If it’s not working, why are you turned around?” He spoke directly into my ear, making me jump a little and face him.
“So, you are doing it to distract me!”
“I’m doing it because I do not have properly fitting clothes.” He chuckled. “Though if it arises such a reaction out of you, then I may make a habit out of it.”
“Don’t!” I handed back his towel.
He rolled his eyes and put it around his waist. “Better?”
Not at all. Because I was still stuck staring at his damn chest. Why did he look like a damn fitness model?
“Ms. Monroe?” he said with a teasing voice.
“Just call me Druella or Dru—”
“Thank you. I’ve been waiting for you to give me permission for that.” He smiled down at me, and I didn’t know what he meant.
“Why?” I asked slowly.
“Because it is quite odd for mates to call each other by their surnames—”
“We’re not mates! Why do you think that? And what did you mean you’d find me, but I found you?” I didn’t understand any of this, and it was starting to bother me.
He placed his hand on my cheek, and I froze. With his other hand, he brushed the curls from my face. “Calm yourself. I will explain; I swear it, but before then, take a shower—you still smell of blood—while I search for clothes unless you prefer our current dynamic.”
I sniffed myself, and while he smelled like fresh vanilla, I reeked of grass, moss, and stale blood. The more I focused on myself, the more I felt the dirt under my fingernails and the twigs caught somewhere in my thick mane of curls.
“You better explain when I get out,” I ordered before pointing behind me. “There are some of my father’s things. You can check to see if there’s anything else you need like socks or something.”
“Will your father not be needing it?”
“He passed away.”
“My apologies—”
“No, it’s fine.”
He nodded, letting go. “Enjoy the Madonna.”
I couldn’t help it; I giggled, walking into my bathroom and closing the door. It was only then that I saw how horrifying I looked. My dark curls went in every direction, and my clothes were tattered and torn with the smallest drops of blood on my collar. There was even some dirt on my arms. The only thing that looked beautiful was my brown eyes; they seemed to shine. No, they did shine, as I had just feed.
