by Zoe Chant
"I, um ..." She twisted her hands in her lap. "I don't really ... watch movies, Gunnar. I'd rather have a nice evening with a good book."
"You never do anything except read?" he asked in bafflement.
"What else is there worth doing?"
They stared at each other in mutual incomprehension.
Given how the getting-to-know-you was going, Gunnar was almost glad (almost, though not quite) when they were interrupted by a slamming door and a sudden yell from upstairs. It sounded like Tessa's voice. "No! Don't let them—look out below! Gaby! Help!"
Gunnar and Melody both looked toward the stairs in blank confusion. There was a pattering of ... feet? Then a swarm of cats appeared on the stairs and hurtled off in all directions. Tessa popped into view an instant later at the top of the stairs, her hair sticking up in all directions. She grabbed onto the railing at the top of the stairs to stabilize her very pregnant body and looked down the stairs into the living room, where not a single cat was visible. For a minute, no one said anything.
"I don't suppose," Tessa said at last, huffing for breath, "that either of you two saw where they went."
Melody had her hands over her mouth and was making tiny squeaky sounds as she tried not to laugh. Gunnar hesitantly raised a hand to point at the kitchen. "I think one of them went in there?"
A baby began wailing from upstairs. Gaby's voice could be heard making hushing noises. "Oh no," Tessa sighed. "I'm sorry!" she said over her shoulder, and began to descend the stairs carefully.
Melody took her hand away from her mouth, cleared her throat, and pointed to her feet. "I think there's one under the couch," she said, her voice steady, with only the dancing of her eyes behind the lenses of her glasses to give away her amusement. "Do you want me to see if I can get it out?"
"Yes, please," Tessa said with relief. "Bending and twisting aren't so great for me right now. Or anything that needs me to be light and quick on my feet. We had the cats all nicely shut in one of the upstairs bedrooms and then I tried to leave and ... well, you can see how that went."
Gunnar got off the couch and crouched down. Maybe he could help with this. He'd always liked animals. He could just glimpse the reflection of the cat's eyes under the couch.
"I can't reach," Melody reported, after stretching and trying to get an arm under the couch.
"I could pick up the couch, maybe?" Gunnar suggested.
Tessa had crept over to peek cautiously into the kitchen; now she turned around. "No, don't do that. They're completely freaked out from being shut up in the carriers, and I think all of Gaby's cats are out in the yard right now, so there shouldn't be any fights. I'll put out some food for them and see if I can coax them out that way."
"Oh, there's another one!" Melody whispered, pointing to an orange-colored cat that had just crept out from behind a bookcase near the door and was looking cautiously around the living room with its tail puffed up.
All three of the humans froze. Gunnar even tried to make his bear be quiet, though it wasn't like the cat could hear it.
"Hey there, baby," Tessa crooned, crouching down to bring herself closer to the cat's level. "How about you come to Mama and let's go back to the nice bedroom, huh?"
Just then a key rattled in the door, five feet away from the cat. The door started to open. Gunnar expected the cat to duck back behind the bookcase, but instead, sensing freedom, it made a dive for the widening crack between the door and frame.
As Keegan appeared in the doorway carrying an armload of groceries, there was a chorus of "Stop that cat!" and "Shut the door!" from Tessa and Melody.
Keegan looked down calmly and, swift but casual, moved a foot to intercept the cat's break for freedom. It was obvious that he'd had a lot of practice at this. He leaned down to scoop the cat up with his free hand and closed the door with his hip. Then he stood and looked at Gunnar and Melody crouching next to the couch and Tessa squatting in the kitchen doorway.
"Cats settling in okay?" he asked mildly.
"Oh yes," Tessa said, her voice serene. A spotted cat peeked around her legs and zipped away when she made a move to reach for it. "As you can see."
"I hope they haven't gotten my gun this time."
"No, not yet anyway." Tessa grabbed the doorframe, made a grunting sound, and settled back into a crouch. "By the way, dear, I think I'm stuck."
The corners of Keegan's mouth twitched as he suppressed a smile. He handed the cat to Melody, gave Gunnar a flat look that probably was meant to convey something along the lines of Stay away from my sister, and went to give his pregnant mate a hand up.
"So we get to spend the rest of the evening playing find the cat—ouch—and I woke up Gaby's baby," Tessa said dolefully as Keegan hauled her to her feet.
"It's fine," Gaby said, coming down the stairs with a sleepy-looking Jimena draped over her shoulder. "If she goes down for the night this early, she'll be up at 3 a.m. anyway."
As Gaby joined the group in the living room, Gunnar could see that any possibility of talking to his mate alone had slipped away utterly. In fact, his mate herself slipped away before he could stop her, quietly taking the cat off to put it in a bedroom. He gazed after her and wished he'd managed to find the right words. It didn't matter if they had all the time in the world if he couldn't do anything other than alienate her every time he talked to her.
This was going great so far. At least it couldn't get worse.
"Who's up for Pictionary?" Gaby asked brightly.
Okay. Maybe it could.
Chapter Six: Melody
She couldn't sleep.
It wasn't the bed, although given the crowding, she'd had to make do with a cot on the floor of the baby's room. Her twin bed back in her apartment was almost as small. No, this was a different problem, a problem with blue eyes and short, scruffy blond hair; a problem with cheekbones to die for and pecs that made her ache to run her hands over them.
And he wasn't her type at all. He wasn't even remotely her type.
He's our mate, her dragon told her, infuriatingly smug in its certainty. He may not be what we thought we wanted, but he's what we need. That's how it works.
But that's not how I work, she thought miserably, rolling over again and tucking her arm under the pillow.
She'd dreamed of meeting someone she could have long conversations with, about history and philosophy and her favorite plot twists in the latest bestseller. Instead she'd gotten someone who barely knew which end of a book to start reading from, someone whose inner life was no more rich and exciting than his bear's.
That's unfair, her dragon told her snippily.
It was unfair ... but being mated to Gunnar meant spending the rest of her life with him. Every day. Every night. And even if the sex was good—who was she kidding; with a body like his, the sex was going to be great—she couldn't imagine what they'd spend all those evenings talking about. Was her life with a mate going to be exactly like her life before—quiet, lonely evenings spent reading by herself?
She sighed and gave up on sleep. Quietly, she dressed and cracked her door open. The hallway was dark and silent, the door to Derek and Gaby's bedroom shut. She stepped out into the hallway, gasped and stifled a curse as something soft and furry nearly tripped her.
A cat shot past her ankles into the room. Melody glanced back to see a tail vanishing into the warm nest of blankets she'd left behind.
"Don't let Tessa see you or you're going back into cat prison," she whispered.
Prison made her think of Gunnar. She grimaced. Everything made her think of Gunnar right now.
Carrying her shoes, she padded down the hallway and tiptoed down the stairs. She wasn't sure where she wanted to go; a half-formed idea had entered her head, a possibility for one way she might be able to get out of this unresolvable mess with Gunnar, but mostly she just wanted to get away for awhile. It was a dark night, with no moon: a good night for flying.
"Hey there," a quiet voice said out of the darkness in the living room, and sh
e almost jumped out of her skin.
A moment later, her eyes adjusted enough to make out Gunnar sitting on the couch. As far as she could tell, he was just sitting there in the dark.
"What on Earth are you doing?" Melody whispered fiercely. She leaned over to put her shoes on and give herself something to do other than stare at him. "You nearly gave me a heart attack. Again."
"Sorry," he said quietly. "Uh ... sorry again, I guess. I didn't realize you didn't know I was there."
Her irritation slipped away in amusement, at herself more than him, and she laughed softly. "I should put a bell on you or something, so I'll always know where you are. You're so quiet. I don't think I've ever met anyone as big as you who can make himself as unobtrusive as you can."
It made her think of herself, actually, though she didn't want to say so. She wasn't big, of course. But she, too, had a way of hiding in a room while still being in plain sight.
Except for that one brief conversation on the couch, they hadn't had a chance for a single private moment during the entire rest of the evening. No opportunities to smooth over the awkwardness; no chance to find out what his big, capable hands felt like on her skin—
No! Stop that!
Gunnar got up off the couch. "It's something you learn," he said quietly. "When you've been—where I was."
"Prison?" she asked.
In the near-darkness, he was nothing but a shape, his blond hair backlit softly by the slight luminescence from the windows. She was acutely aware of him, though—aware of every inch of him. He was still a few feet away, but it seemed as if she could feel the heat of his body from here.
As if nothing separated them but the night. As if she already knew the taste of his skin, the feel of his body against hers—
"I can't pretend it wasn't what it was," he said softly. "That I'm not what I am."
"Neither can I," she said, but she took a step forward. He did, too, as if they were drawn to each other by some magnetism greater than either of them.
It didn't have to matter, she thought. There were other things to do in life than talk about books. Things that needed no words at all ...
But when the dream ended and she woke from the heat of his hands on her skin, woke to find him lying beside her in bed ... what then? An empty life, trapped together, unsuited to each other—like her parents?
Except her parents had not been tied together by a mate bond, so they had been able to walk away.
He started to say something, and then stopped. She reached out a hand, not sure what she was doing or why, and her fingers brushed across his T-shirt-clad chest. She sucked in a breath. He stood still, and then his hand came up to close over hers, gently curling around her fingers.
She'd dreamed, awake or asleep, of what his fingers would feel like on hers. It was just as she'd imagined, and better than she'd hoped. His hands were big, strong, and capable, the fingers rough with calluses as they brushed lightly across the backs of her own.
She stepped forward before she knew what she was doing. Her arm was a livewire and current arced down it, drawing her to crash into him. He lowered his head, in the dark, and their lips found each other's as if meant for it.
His mouth was hot, hungry, wanting. His hand cupped her face, fingers curling into her unbound hair; his other hand still trapped hers against his chest, pressing her palm to his accelerating heartbeat. She gasped against his mouth and wrapped her other arm around his back, pulling him against her, as if they could be made not two bodies, but one.
What am I doing? The thought surfaced from her lust-drunk mind, and she caught her breath, breaking the kiss, and pushed him away.
He stepped back, startled and hurt; she knew it without seeing his face. "Melody?"
"I'm sorry," she gasped. She could still feel his lips on hers. She could taste him. She knew what he tasted like now; she could never forget it. "I'm sorry—I—this was a mistake."
"I'm your mate, Melody," he said. She hadn't realized her hand was still on his chest; she'd used the leverage to push him away, but only as far as the length of her arm. "We're mates. We're meant for each other."
Desire thrummed through her blood. If she gave in now, if she let herself fall against him one more time, she would never get away.
"I'm sorry," she said again, and wrenched her hand away from his chest. Blindly, tripping over furniture, she stumbled to the door and fumbled with the locks until she undid all of them and wrenched it open.
"Melody—" Gunnar began, and the distress in his voice cut her to the bone.
"Don't follow me!" she snapped, because she could hear his steps coming after her. She softened her voice: "Please. I need to be alone for a little while. Please?"
"It might not be safe out there."
He was so close. She dared not look back, not with her arousal still so powerful that it made her limbs shake, made her hardened nipples press against her sensible cotton bra.
"You know what I am." She tried to make her voice hard, but it came out shuddering. She need only turn around, give in to what her body so desperately wanted—No! "Just as I know what you are. You saw my animal when you looked in my eyes. You know, better than anyone, that I need fear nothing when I walk in the forest at night."
But the words, which had always been true, were a hollow lie now. She feared nothing except her own emotions. She feared nothing except her animal's desire to bond her to a man in a union that could bring nothing but pain for both of them.
Her steps were swift, all but running, around the corner of the house and through the meadow grass to the barn.
Gunnar didn't follow, respecting her wishes—whether she wanted him to or not. Mingled relief and disappointment rose in her throat, choking her like unshed tears.
In the stillness of the night, she stood with her hand resting against the rough boards of the barn wall. Her breathing calmed; her racing heart slowed. Her knees no longer trembled.
She still wanted him like a fire inside her.
She also knew that once she had him, there was no going back from that.
Melody shook her head as if to shake off her own thoughts. There might be, just possibly, someone who could help her. Help them, because Gunnar was just as trapped by this unsuitable bonding as she was. It wasn't anyone she would ever have dreamed of talking to about her romantic woes before—but in this particular case, that person might be able to help her when no one else could.
She took off her glasses and tucked them into a pocket of her cardigan, having learned the hard way that while her clothes and anything in the pockets shifted when she did, her glasses and other accessories did not. The night was now an indistinct patchwork of light and dark blurs. She took a few steps away from the barn to give herself room, and shifted.
The blurry world shrank, but didn't get any clearer. She had often considered the possibility of having glasses custom-made in a dragon size, but the idea of how ridiculous it would look, let alone trying to explain to an optometrist why she needed her prescription in bicycle-tire-sized lenses, had always stopped her. Besides, her dragon's sharp sense of smell made up for their mutual lack of vision.
Oh, good, her dragon crooned, spreading great leathery wings. If you're done being stupid about our mate, can we fly now?
We can fly now, yes.
Hunting? the dragon wanted to know.
Not right now. Maybe later. Tonight we're going to see Father.
Oh, that's a long flight. I like that. This will be fun.
Her wings beat downward. It was hard to launch from the ground, much better to jump from a height, but after a few strong beats she lifted off, tucking her legs under her. Relying on the moonless darkness to hide her, she winged her way across the mountains, heading for her father's lair.
Flying across this rough country was faster than driving, with no need to follow the winding roads and highways, but it was still a long flight. Normally she would have welcomed the solitude and the opportunity for mental peace, but tonight her
mind was in turmoil. She forced herself to focus on the rush of wind across her wings, the fuzzy haze of the stars above, giving herself over to her dragon's pleasure in simple, physical things. Soon enough, she glided down over the blurry lights of her father's mansion, perched on a clifftop overlooking a secluded valley.
She had worried that everyone would be asleep, but light spilled out onto the lawn. Her father often kept late hours. She landed on the grass and shifted, folding her wings about herself, and restored her glasses to their usual place on her nose. Although it was nice not to have to shift back naked, like non-mythic shifters had to, she felt severely underdressed in her gray cardigan as she mounted the wide marble steps to the front door.
For a long time she had tried to be the daughter her father wanted. She had dressed like a haughty daughter of wealth when she was in his house, even though she felt like a child dressing up in someone else's clothes. And she'd left her glasses at home, even though she was half blind without them and contacts hurt her eyes, because he didn't like seeing her wearing them; he considered it shameful for one of their kind to advertise their weakness in such a fashion.
But these days she had retreated into a sort of pride in the dowdy, librarianish way of dressing that she preferred. She almost enjoyed her father's scathing looks when she came to dinner wearing jeans and a sweater, with her hair in a bun. It wasn't like she was ever going to be the tall, glamorous daughter he'd wanted, so why play the part anymore?
The door opened just as she reached to knock, and her father's manservant Maddox blocked the light, a massive slab of muscle crammed into a suit that always seemed slightly too small, somehow, even though it fit him perfectly. Expensive tailoring couldn't hide the enormous shoulders or the graceful, pantherlike way he moved.
"Your father's in his study," he rumbled, and glided out of the way. "He's expecting you."
"Of course he is," she murmured. It didn't surprise her that she'd been detected on approach. She knew that her father's security system was second to none. It wouldn't even surprise her to learn that some of his technology was military grade.