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“You’re welcome—” His voice is low and husky. “What should I call you?”
“Maya.”
“Pretty name,” he says, and I like that he likes it.
“You?” I ask when his own name is not forthcoming.
“Forge.”
I wrinkle my nose. “That your real name?”
“Kind of a nickname. But the only name I ever use.” He gives a dry laugh.
My lips work, and I barely stop myself from asking if he’s a forger.
“I was always good at working with my hands,” he supplies. “My mom said she should’ve named me Vulcan, after the god of blacksmiths and creators, and somehow I ended up being called Forge.” He shrugs. “Guess it fits.”
It does, I think. He is like a god. Too massive and intimidatingly attractive to be a mortal.
A creator god… my eyes are drawn to the designs again. “Is this all your work?”
“Yup.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks,” he replies, with a flash of diffidence, and it’s endearing.
I keep leafing through the book, mainly to distract myself from how jittery his proximity is making me.
He starts telling me about his designs, his inspirations. He has a thing for creatures of myth, and his renderings are so vivid they leap out from the pages.
For a few beautiful minutes, I let myself drift, enjoy the exciting-uncomfortable feeling of being close to him.
Then I snap out of it. Remember why I’ve been putting myself through all of this. I clear my throat. “Are you from Perdue?”
He straightens up, drags his knee away from mine. “Nope. Been here a few years though,” he says. “You just moved here?”
I hesitate, because I really don’t want to lie to him. Not because he scares me, but because I sense he’s not a guy you should lie to. He feels too—well—powerful. A fierce, alpha being. An immortal who knows the thoughts of puny humans. “Yeah, that’s right,” I say at last.
His gaze sears the side of my face. “And you thought you’d celebrate by getting some ink?”
“Yeah.” I concentrate on breathing slowly, praying my cheeks don’t start to burn.
“And that’s why I’ve seen you stalking up and down Main Street the past couple of days. Going into one store after another.”
My heart starts to pound. “Just introducing myself to the locals,” I mutter.
He sighs. “A lot of people come to Perdue asking questions, poking their noses into things they shouldn’t.” His voice is low, but there’s a vibration of danger in it, and the little hairs on my forearms stand on end.
“I’m not one of those.”
“Then prove it.”
When I dare look at him again, his eyes are glowing with a predatory light. There’s such a weird mixture of nerves and desire in my stomach that I feel queasy. “Prove it?” I echo.
“Tell me where I’m going to tattoo you.”
Oh, god.
