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“Kitsulli!”
I check my surroundings. Oh fuck. The young teens have grown in number, gathering in a group around a fir tree and iron benches. Winter Festival banners sway in the chilly breeze near them.
I’ve been warming myself with the spiked hot cocoa, and as anxiety rushes through me, I down the whole mug in a couple gulps.
Akara watches me. “Sul? You okay?”
I swallow hard and then accidentally let out a soft belch. Fuck.
“Lady Meadows,” he says into a smile. “How very courtly of you.” He looks at me like I’m the most gorgeous thing in the garden. There is no friend zone in those eyes. I’m more to him, and I inhale strongly like I’m trying to breathe in the moment for eternity.
And then I touch my lips, pretending to be more of a lady. “Pardon fucking me.”
His smile widens.
I sway a little, buzzing from the alcohol.
His humor instantly shatters. “Sul.” He actually does reach for my hand this time. Our fingers touch and the intensity of the moment in public races my heart and quickens my breath.
A wave of shocked gasps comes from the Kitsulli crowd.
I flinch.
Akara drops his hand again.
I swallow hard as my nerves ratchet up. “Maybe we should get more hot cocoa,” I suggest with a tip of my mug. “I’m all out.”
Akara stares at the mug for a beat too long.
“Kits?” My stomach knots.
His eyes flit to me, concern outlining his brown irises. “You feel okay?”
“Totally,” I nod, hoping he can see that I can handle alcohol now. The pass-out phase is long gone. Feels like it hasn’t happened in forever. “Just warm and fuzzy. I could probably have another.” I like this floaty feeling and how the knot in my stomach untwists.
Two mugs of spiked hot cocoa and my nerves will be obliterated. Those people pointing and staring and making the wrong assumptions about my relationship won’t be able to cross the barrier I build. That magical barrier allows me to not care about them.
I just don’t want to fucking care.
I want to be unbothered. Unaffected.
Akara tilts his head to the maze of snowcapped garden hedges. “One time through and then more hot cocoa?”
“Deal.” I follow him into the maze just as someone shouts at the top of their lungs, “XANDER, LOOK AT ME!”
The distraction (albeit, not great for my cousin) does grant me some reprieve from the Kitsulli crowd. No one traces my footsteps into the maze.
Our boots crunch the snow, and I slip in front of Akara and walk backwards while he follows.
His brows rise. “I’m supposed to be in front of you, Sul.”
“Beat me then,” I say in challenge.
And I take off. Sprinting through the hedges. He’s fast, but I’m faster. Darting around the green hedges. His hands catch my waist but slip off. Laughter tumbles from my lips. The air is cold, and the twinkle lights dance above us.
The alcohol drives warmth through my blood, and my head dizzies for a second. When I round a corner of white rose bushes, I trip on my own pantleg. Before I tumble face first into snow, Akara grabs me around the waist.
His hands firm.
His body hard.
He pulls me back towards him.
I’m breathless. Windblown and tidal swept. He’s the dreamboat shielding me from the rip current.
His lips brush my ear. “Caught you.” His voice might as well light my sex drive on fucking fire. Heat bathes me in an instant.
I tilt my head back against his shoulder to look up into his eyes without breaking from his hold. “Wild things aren’t meant to be caught,” I breathe.
His eyes caress mine. “You’re not a thing.”
“Then what am I?”
“Mine,” he says. “His.” His lips hover against my ear once more. “Ours.”
My heart beats harder in my chest.
Kits places a hand on my collarbones in desirous affection. Longing pools between us like a raging ocean. “You’re right about one thing,” he whispers.
“What?”
“Wild creatures aren’t meant to be caught,” he says. “But they do choose their home.”
My heart thumps. “Is that why we all chose each other?”
“I’d like to think so,” Akara says with another rising smile.
Carolers hum in the distance, and the scent of roses permeates around us. Melodic and heady, we start to sway. His hands still holding me tight to him. Mine pressed atop his.
“Happy Birthday, Kits,” I say as I spin to face him, and after digging in my jumpsuit’s pocket (yes, it’s fucking awesome and has pockets), I hand him a tiny, wrapped gift.
He smiles. “Let me guess.” He feels the package. “A friendship bracelet.” It’s my go-to gift for him, but he’s wrong this time.
“Not a friendship bracelet.”
His brows crinkle. “Feels like a friendship bracelet to me.”
“Just open it,” I say impatiently.
He rips the paper and shakes out the red bracelet into his palm. I strung lettered beads into the braided strings, and the beads spell, I love Sulli.
