“Why, sweetheart?” He pulled her into the store.
“Because I’m really going to take your word for it. For now.”
“I appreciate that. Trust is very important in a relationship.”
“We’re not in a relationship. You have an oven, right?”
“Trust is very important in a friendship, then. And yes, I do.”
She looked up at him sharply, suspicion all over her face. “Friendship.”
“Friends make friends cupcakes. We’re friends.”
She nodded slowly. “Alright.”
“Friends who want to be in each other’s pants forever and—”
“Okay, you lost me.” But she gave him a real smile, one that lit up his heart, and actually laughed. The sound was so beautiful, he almost passed out. Then she said, as if nothing had happened—as if the world hadn’t just shifted on its axis—“Oh, I bet you don’t have a muffin tray.”
“We’ll buy one,” he murmured, slightly dazed. “We’ll buy whatever you want.”
An hour later, Luke found himself stirring a huge bowl of chocolate mush that smelled almost as good as his mate. The lady in question was sitting on his kitchen counter, popping little paper cases into one of the multiple muffin trays he’d been persuaded to buy. He was beginning to think that glittering laugh of hers had been part of a nefarious plot.
“So,” she said, “you mentioned that you’re an artist.” She’d been asking a lot of questions this evening, none of them related to his apparent evilness. He’d rather enjoyed it.
“That’s right. The carvings, some sculptures, whatever.” He stirred harder. Apparently, his mate wanted minimum lumps in this batter. Therefore, he would eliminate all lumps.
“How’d that start?” The bright interest in her voice capturing his attention. He looked up to find her watching him with something close to fascination. Then she shoved a hand into her pocket and produced the acorn he’d given her yesterday, rolling it through her fingers.
He tried not to grin from ear to ear, but it was difficult to resist the urge when she’d been carrying that thing around all day. She must have taken the time to move it from last night’s jacket to today’s jeans. “Long story,” he said, finally.
She nodded slowly, staring at the acorn as if it held the secrets to the universe. Then she said, “I was so surprised when I saw those pumpkins. I thought… I mean… Luke, you have a soul, right?”
“I hope so. My mother would be pissed if I lost it.”
She huffed out a little laugh, but her expression was still pensive.
He took pity on her, and on his own curiosity. It had been fun, being with her—playing with her—and ignoring the questions between them. But they still needed to deal with this, not least because it would be far easier to mate her if she understood the basics of his existence. “Sweetheart, you and your family… You do know the difference between a Were and a rabid, don’t you?”
The look on her face was answer enough. A second later she confirmed her ignorance with a shake of the head and a hoarse, “What?”
Ah. “Well, that explains a lot.”
She scowled. “Oh, don’t be smug. We… A couple of generations back, we lost track of some knowledge, I suppose. It happens.”
“It does,” he agreed, even though he’d never heard of such a thing. Then again, Weres were solitary creatures, mates and limited offspring aside. A big family like hers wasn’t something he had experience with.
“So, what’s the difference?” she asked. “And keep stirring.”
“Fine.” He gave a put-upon sigh to hide the fact that he didn’t mind stirring at all, especially since she stared at his forearms while he did it. He liked his mate’s eyes on him, and, apparently, she liked arms.
Weird, but he’d go with it.
“Okay, so, Werewolves: cursed by the gods, or some shit—but really, who remembers? Forced to change during the full moon, although I can technically change whenever I want. Extremely vulnerable to silver.” He grimaced. “Please don’t ever poison me again, by the way. I threw up so much this morning. Now, where was I? Oh. Murderous urges, predatory instincts, enhanced senses, strength, speed—I think we covered that before. Also...” He speared her with a look. “We’re very good at finding the people who were made for us. And when we find them, we mate for life.”
She rolled her eyes and muttered, “Wow, Romeo,” but he saw her fighting a smile.
“So, that’s me. And then there are rabids. Being a Were is generally okay, except for the aforementioned murderous urges. Makes it difficult to hold on to your soul. That’s actually why I… Well, I think I mentioned struggling with my temper. And, you know, there were those guys I killed.”
“Yes,” she murmured wryly. “I recall.”
“Well, when I was in my early twenties, I went through a difficult phase. Had a lot of violent energy. Started challenging my mother—she’s more dominant than my dad, you see. It was like I couldn’t help myself. So she threw me out and told me to fix it, which I did—by hunting the city for unrepentant scum and dragging them home to play with. Helped for a while. Until it didn’t.”
He winced at the memory of his own disordered mind, his fractured control, his spiralling bloodlust. “I’m lucky I figured out a way to calm myself. My art, the creativity and the effort, it reminds me who I am. But if I hadn’t worked so hard, cultivated restraint… Well. When a Were gives into those urges, goes too far, loses their humanity—they go rabid. That’s the curse. And once you’re rabid, you start to degrade, from brain tissue to body to soul.”
She nodded slowly, and he searched her face for the inevitable horror—or, at the very least, judgement. But he found none. Her gaze was sharp as ever, and yet when she spoke, it was to ask, “You okay now?”
Something about her voice, how it seemed more worried than suspicious, lit up his heart. “I’m just fine, sweetheart. I dealt with my issues a decade ago.”
The ghost of a smile flashed over her face, so fast he almost missed it. Then, like a student recapping a lesson, she said, “So, what you’re telling me is… There are two kinds of Werewolves, and you’re currently the not-so-evil kind. Which is why you aren’t sociopathic in human form and completely unable to control yourself otherwise, and led by bloodlust and addicted to human flesh and—”
“Yes,” he cut in.
“Well.” She glared at him as if he’d just ripped off his skin to reveal that he’d been a micropig all along. “You could’ve said something.”
“Chastity… You stabbed me. In the chest.”
“Which would’ve been the perfect time to say something.”
“Forgive me for being somewhat distracted,” he snorted. “I think this is done, by the way.”
She ignored him, didn’t even look at the smooth chocolate mush he presented her with. Instead, she sank a hand into her mass of curls and frowned down at the kitchen floor. “This is… a lot.”
The slight tremor in her voice and the slump of her shoulders twisted his heart. “I know,” he said, walking over to stand in front of her. He put the bowl on the counter and found himself sliding between her thighs without a second thought—without even a dirty thought, he was so focused on easing her sudden hopelessness. “Just give it time. Let yourself adjust.”
She looked up, her dark eyes glittering like diamonds. “Luke. I tried to kill you.”
“I know. I was there.”
She shot him a glare that suited her face far better than sadness. But then the glare faded, and she was lost again. “I tried to kill you,” she repeated, “and you’re a person.”
“Yep.”
She winced. “I’m a murderer.”
“No, sweetheart. You’re an attempted murderer.”
She ignored him. “And what about all the Weres my family’s been killing? What if they’ve been slaughtering people like you, and they didn’t even know it?”
“If it’s any consolation,” he said, “99% of Werewolves are ra
ging arseholes anyway.”
“That is not a consolation,” she gritted out.
“Sorry. I’m not good with morals.”
“Apparently, neither are we,” she muttered, and covered her face with both hands.
He sighed, reaching for one of her wrists. He should’ve been used to it now, the sudden shock of his world sliding perfectly into place whenever they touched, but it still stole his breath for a moment. Hers too, if the way her pulse raced under his fingers was any indication.
“It’s unlikely that your family has ever killed someone like me. We don’t garner attention because we don’t run around eating people. Much. I’ve been living in this town for years and you guys only figured out my existence a month ago.”
She nodded slowly, meeting his eyes, finally looking a little more like his Chastity. “Right. Okay.”
“Come here.” He wrapped his arms around her and she actually allowed it, her head falling onto his shoulder, her hands settling hesitantly at his waist. He ran a slow, easy hand over her back, feeling her breathing calm and her body relax. It was interesting to discover that his vicious mate also cared about the lives of almost-innocents—but that instinct, he supposed, was probably what made her and her people hunters rather than serial killers.
When she was completely calm, he spoke again. “The important thing is that you know now, and you can tell your family, and be sure that it’ll never happen. Okay?”
“Okay,” she repeated, her voice back to normal now, strong and shining bright.
“Plus,” he added, “your mother might like me more if you tell her what a useful source of information I am.”
She pulled away from him with a snort, and though the loss felt physically painful, it was worth it to see the smile in her eyes. “You,” she said sternly, “are never meeting my mother.”
“Sure, I am. And you’ll meet mine.”
“Do I want to?” she muttered wryly.
“Oh, she doesn’t bite. She’s really mellowed in her old age.” Luke bit back a smile at the thought of his Mum’s flinty gaze meeting Chastity’s dark glare. Both women were formidable, to say the least. He had a feeling they’d get along wonderfully, after they got over their initial suspicion of each other.
Dad, of course, would adore Chastity. Like Luke, he enjoyed violently straight-forward women.
“Your mother is a Were,” Chas said, “isn’t she?”
“Oh, yeah. So’s my Dad. It’s why I’m terrible with human socialisation.”
She made a cute little noise that might actually be a laugh. “Whatever. Maybe I’ll meet your parents—for research purposes only.” His beast howled in triumph at the curiosity beneath her iron-hard tone. His mate wanted to meet his family, whether she admitted it or not. Good. Family was important to them both, he thought, but they were both solitary creatures in spite of those bonds.
Now they would be solitary together.
Then she ruined his little high by adding, “But you’re still not getting within fifty feet of Ma.”
Luke rolled his eyes. “You know, I’m pretty sure I already met her last month when she tried to kill me. That was her, right? And all your sisters?”
Chas gave a noncommittal grunt.
“Don’t worry. I officially issue blanket forgiveness towards every Adofo woman who’s ever plotted to end my life. Which I’m quite sure is all of you. That’s okay. I don’t judge.”
Luke was getting used to his mate’s unpredictability, so he wasn’t sure if she’d laugh at that or kick him in the balls. She did neither. Instead, with a sharp little smile on her face, her movements impressively fast, she grabbed the bowl of cake batter beside her and poured it over his head.
Her Were could be rather infuriating, but Chas would give him this: he looked damn good covered in chocolate.
She pushed away the residual sparkle of sensation dancing across her skin, leftover from the feel of his hands on her. She ignored the fact that every time they touched, she came alive; ignored the fact that he comforted her more easily and more completely than anyone ever had; ignored the fact that her trust in him was a living, breathing part of her, one that had grown far too quickly.
She ignored everything that was unsettling, confusing, and softening her, and laughed her arse off at the look on his face instead.
Luke’s astonishment lasted a bare few seconds before he looked down at himself with a slow grin of disbelief. There was cake batter plastered in his hair, dribbling slowly down his face, staining his white T-shirt. He rubbed a hand over his cheek, stared at the stripe of chocolate goo on his palm, then licked it.
Oh, fuck. The man should be banned from licking things in front of her. She was so distracted by the leisurely stripe of his tongue, so busy hoping he wouldn’t notice the flare of her arousal, that she almost missed the gleam in his eyes. With preternatural speed, he snatched the mixing bowl from her hands and held it up—
“Not the hair!” she shrieked, throwing up her hands. The last thing she expected was for him to actually listen. He changed course at the last second and threw the rest of the batter directly at her chest.
Chas gave a strangled cry at the sudden influx of cold wetness, some landing on bare skin, some soaking through the fabric of her clothes. She slapped her hands over herself protectively—if a little too late—then realised that she’d essentially just grabbed her own tits.
“Stop laughing!” she demanded, her cheeks burning.
Luke, of course, ignored her. In fact, he laughed harder, until she worried he might actually fall over—and then she was laughing too, her stomach cramping and her breath coming in desperate, joy-tinged gasps. She clutched at his shoulders and he wrapped an arm around her, and somehow their foreheads bumped together as they finally calmed down.
Then, all at once, they were just Chas and Luke, eye to eye, far closer than she’d ever intended. It was like the alleyway all over again, but different, because every second she spent with him seemed to change something inside her, seemed to build her need for him higher. He slid a hand beneath her hair to cup the back of her neck, as if he were afraid she might pull away.
She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.
She could feel the cake batter on his forehead smearing onto hers. She could also feel his every breath, light and cool, against her lips. If she moved forward an inch or two, they’d be kissing. Not that she wanted to kiss him.
Oh, for Christ’s sake, of course she wanted to kiss him. So much that pretending otherwise, especially to herself, was just ridiculous.
But she still couldn’t bring herself to move. Not with those glowing green eyes, ones that seemed so warm and enchanting now, holding her hostage. So, it was a blessing, really, when he kissed her instead.
His mouth was whisper-soft over hers, a teasing glide that made her desire swell, that filled her with desperate longing. She tensed every muscle in her body just to stop herself from crying out, from moving forward to deepen the kiss. She wanted heat, immediacy, the kind of frantic passion that made her truly mindless—but he gave her a slow sensuality that made her feel unavoidably present.
His fingers slid into her hair and tightened, holding her still. His other hand settled heavily at her waist, dared her to ask for more, to demand the grasping, greedy touches she wanted, to push him towards her aching breasts or her wet and swollen sex. She refused to do either, no matter how much her body wept for it. She refused to give in.
His lips eased hers open like the sun eases open a bloom, slow and easy and right. When his tongue finally slid over the seam of her lower lip, she was shaking. He licked at her mouth as if she were the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted, and Chastity’s hands slid under his shirt without permission from her brain. The feel of his hot skin and hard body only made the wanting worse, because it was him. It was undeniably him. And he, she realised, was everything she wanted.
He was still standing between her legs, so it wasn’t hard to pull him closer, to slot him into the apex of her
thighs like a puzzle piece. He moved with a hungry growl, his grip on her waist tightening, their bodies pressed together until she could almost feel his heartbeat in her bones. And still it wasn’t close enough, even with her hands roaming the planes of his back and his fingers making little indents in the softness of her middle. Even with his tongue gliding intimately over hers and his low growls of pleasure rolling right down her throat.
It was instinct that drove her to take more, to demand more. And an Adofo woman always listened to her instincts. Chastity broke the kiss, pulled back just enough to drag his T-shirt over his head. As soon as he understood her silent, jerking movements, Luke tore the fabric off himself, and then he grabbed her T-shirt and got rid of that too.
There was a look on his face, as he stripped them both above the waist, a look she’d never seen before—not when he’d been uncertain, trying to befriend her at the café, and not when he’d been cocky and comfortable and eternally teasing. Now, his jaw was a hard line, his mouth firm, his eyes narrowed. He looked fierce in his concentration, in his determination. Or at least, he did until he unhooked her bra, pulled it away, and laid eyes on her chest.
Then he looked utterly undone.
“Chas,” he murmured, his voice raw gravel. “You…”
His slack expression, not to mention the hardness nudging between her thighs, brought a smile of satisfaction to her face. “I…?”
He took a deep, shaking breath, closed his eyes, opened them again. His usual teasing smile appeared, with a lustful edge that made her shiver. But she didn’t miss the echoes of that awed reverence in his eyes, even as he said mockingly, “You’re covered in chocolate.”
She arched a brow. “And whose fault is that?”
“Don’t worry.” He swiped a finger over the swell of one breast without warning, collecting cake batter that was almost the same shade as her skin. Then, holding her gaze, he licked the finger. “I’ll clean it up.”
She bit her lip to stop herself from whimpering, the skin he’d touched so lightly already tingling as if she’d been shocked. Her nipples were so stiff and sensitive that his gaze alone felt like a touch—but he didn’t actually touch them. Not like she wanted him to. Not yet. Instead, he grabbed her thighs and hauled her off the counter, holding her against his body. She wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, and he carried her through the cabin.
Mating the Huntress Page 7
