by Olivia Arran
“Did they play a big part in your life?”
Pulling a tray of shrimp out of the fridge, he shook them into a colander, a smile of pure pleasure breaking out over his handsome face. “The biggest. My Nonna taught me how to cook, but only Italian, of course, and my Nonno, how to track.”
“Well, you’re pretty good at the tracking stuff,” I offered, adding a put on wince as I remembered how easily he’d found me today, despite my best efforts.
Shaking the water from the shrimp, he started to shell them, his fingers precise and gentle with the delicate shellfish. “What about you? Who had the most impact on you as you grew from a child to a woman?”
I didn’t even have to think about it. “My mom. She’s a strong woman; she taught me how to stand up for myself. Even though my papa is a strong man, she was always an equal.”
“You speak as if she’s not around anymore?”
“No! She’s still alive…” My voice trailed off as I considered his question. “I suppose I phrased it that way because I won’t ever see her again.” My mouth clamped shut, having already said too much.
“Glad to hear it, that she’s alive, that is. She sounds like a good role model.” His knife was busy, chopping up garlic and what looked like red chilies.
Placing my glass down on the table, I ran a finger around the fluted edge, staring into the glass. “She was—is. Her relationship with my papa is the perfect marriage of respect and love, the kind fairytales are made out of.” And that’s why I was certain I was doing the right thing.
The thump on the chopping board paused and I glanced up. But he just smiled at me, albeit a little more wan than before, and carried on chopping. “Is the wine okay?”
“Beautiful,” I confirmed.
“Good, good.” Rising his hands, his eyes scanned the neat row of bowls, checking off his ingredients one by one. “Okay. We’re just waiting on the pasta to finish resting. I’m going to grab a shower and I’ll be right back down.” With that, he left the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind him.
I was probably imagining it, my overactive mind seeing something that wasn’t there, but he had seemed … upset. Tense. As though I had said something wrong.
But, which part?
Chapter Thirteen
Greg
Cursing under my breath, I slammed into my bathroom and wrenched on the shower. Tearing my clothes off, I lunged in, the scalding water blasting my skin and threatening to burn away a layer or two. Stupid, stupid— My fist hit the tiled wall, cracking one straight down the center.
I closed my eyes, bracing myself under the steady stream, the longing in her voice ringing through my head until I couldn’t breathe. Chest tight, I sucked in a breath, holding it until my head swam, then forced it back out again. She spoke of fairytales, love and respect. I knew nothing of that. I hadn’t lied, my grandparents being the only thing in my life worth remembering, but I’d omitted a vital fact: they’d died when I was six.
And, all the love and respect in my family had died with them.
I’d survived six more years, then I’d left and never looked back. I still didn’t look back. Refused to. I didn’t owe them the honor of remembering them. Remembering her.
My throat tight, I fought back the black hole that threatened to suck me in. Memories danced at the edges, teasing me with promises of pain and sorrow. I wasn’t that young boy anymore. I had left him dead in the dirt that sunny day. My abysmal effort had failed, a traveler finding and taking me in, looking for an apprentice to work hard and talk little. He had nursed me back to health with steady hands and a stern eye, giving little care for my weak protests and efforts to stay dead.
I owed that man my life. If it wasn’t for him, I might have succeeded. He was dead now, dirt in the ground, like I should have been. I’d given up on life, but didn’t care enough to end it. So I became the man I am today, unable to separate myself from the past, and consumed by a rage I couldn’t escape.
Fuck. I banged my head against the wall, trying to drive the memories away. To send them back into the cage I had erected around them.
Water dripped down my face, streaming into my eyes and mouth, as I blinked, unseeing, forcing them back until I could breathe again.
My wolf whimpered, curled up in the corner of my mind, where he always went when we remembered.
They’re gone, they can’t hurt us anymore, I said to him, like I always did. Flicking the taps off, I grabbed a towel and dragged it over my body, scrubbing off the water, the rough cotton scouring my skin and grounding me in the present.
It had gone well in the kitchen, Scarlett opening up and relaxing. I had a short list of candidates ready to kill, only needing confirmation on which one was the right target for my rage. All in all, a good day so far, and it wasn’t over yet. Which meant I had to pull my sorry ass together and get myself back downstairs.
Dragging on a pair of sweatpants and a clean tee, I made my way back down to the kitchen, dragging a hand through my hair and leaving it in spikes. It would have to do. Anyway, I was going for friendly and approachable—the less threatening I looked, the better.
She looked up as I entered, her glass frozen half way to her lips. Or half way leaving, the glass now nearly empty. Not that I had to worry about her getting drunk, it took a hell of a lot for a shifter to even get buzzed, let alone blotto.
“More wine?” Moving over to the counter, I grabbed the bottle and topped off the glass at her nod. “Pasta should be ready by now.” She was staring at me, as though trying to puzzle me out. Good luck with that one, sweetheart. Grabbing the cling filmed ball out of the fridge, I started working it through the machine, feeding it through on a continuous loop until it was thin and smooth. Flicking on the stove, I set a pot of water on to boil, and a pan with a little oil.
“Greg?”
“Uh huh?” I was in the zone, the familiar routine ingrained into me as a child, soothing my soul like nothing else could.
“Nothing.”
Okay. “What is it?” I threw in the garlic and chili to brown.
She’d turned away, fiddling with her glass. “Earlier, you seemed … upset.”
Fuck. That was an understatement and a half. “I don’t like to talk about my family.” There you go, I’d shared.
“We were talking about my family.”
Details. Shit, it wasn’t usually this hard to let the lies flow. Sliding the ribboned pasta into the lightly boiling pan, I added a dash of salt. Next, the shrimp joined the garlic and chili. “I don’t like it when you’re upset.” At least that was near the truth, though a little too bland to describe how I actually felt. More like, I despised her being upset. Hated it. Wanted to rip out my own heart and give it to her, kinda thing. Except for the fact that my heart was an empty husk … yeah, she was better off with her own, even broken.
“Oh.” She wasn’t buying it, but wasn’t pressing me either.
I added a slosh of wine to the shrimp, tossed in some seasoning and some tomato puree. “Dinner’s nearly ready.”
Sliding out of her chair, she rounded the table to collect the cutlery I’d dug out.
This was all starting to feel a little domesticated. I considered the thought, swirling it around in my mind. It didn’t feel wrong, per se, more like a little … strange. Draining the pasta, I divided it between the plates, dumping the sauce on top. “Bon appetite,” I muttered, plonking the plates down on the table and grabbing a bag of salad out of the fridge. I didn’t do pretty. As long as it tasted all right, I was good.
Forking up some pasta, she took a bite, her eyes widening. “It’s really good!”
“No need to act so surprised.” There I went again: muttering.
“Sorry! I just meant … I didn’t know …” She blushed a rosy pink, her eyes dropping to her plate. “You didn’t seem the type that would know how to cook. Or that would want to,” she blurted out.
“Your words mortally wound me,” I gasped out, clutching my chest for effect. “I�
�ll have you know I’m a modern guy. I even know how to do my own laundry too.” Throwing her a wink, I bit into a shrimp and chewed with a, hopefully, thoughtful expression.
“I can see that now,” she replied in a solemn voice, dipping her head to hide a small grin. “Is that how your antiques survived this long?”
“Antiques?”
“Your collection of T-shirts.”
Puffing out my chest, I jabbed a thumb at an example of the article in question. “I’ll have you know they’re retro.”
“If you say so,” she shot back.
“Good job they’re not antiques, given that you destroyed one last night.”
“You enjoyed it.”
I arched an eyebrow at her. “I might have.”
She jabbed a fork in the air, twirling it around. “How the hell do you do that?”
“What?”
“The eyebrow thing. If I try it, I look like I’m having a fit, or something.”
“I’m not sure I understand…” She scrunched up her face, her eyebrows wriggling like demented slugs, “…Ah, yeah, I see. Practice,” I finished, trying to hold back the laughter.
“You’re laughing at me. That’s not very nice.”
“No. I’m not. See?” I pointed at my mouth, which was very firmly shut and fixed in a straight line. “Not laughing one bit.”
The waving fork again. “Inside you are.”
“Back to the destroying antiques; you owe me a new T-shirt.”
“Hey, you said they were retro.”
I shrugged, giving her the evil eye. “Still valuable.”
“Is the one you’re wearing valuable?”
“Yup—” Pasta splatted on my chest.
“Oops!” She covered her mouth, a giggle escaping around her fingers.
I glanced down, then back up again. “I can’t believe you actually just did that.”
“You’ve never had a food fight before?”
No. “Yeah, sure. When I was five.” The pasta decided at that moment to loose it’s stickiness, peeling off my chest and landing in a glob on my groin. I glanced down. “That’s a pair of pants you owe me now, too.”
“They’ll wash.”
“You offering to do my laundry?”
A pause. “No.”
“Ah, well, worth a try.” She didn’t have chance to duck, or blink, before the flying shrimp hit her square in the cheek.
Spluttering, she scooped up a forkful.
I ducked, as the pasta sailed over my head. Glancing over my shoulder, I winced at the sight of tagliatelle dripping down the wall. Something solid hit my chin, bouncing off and settling in my lap.
She snorted, eyeing me with a mischievous, carefree grin.
“I hope you know what you’ve started,” I growled, plucking up the shrimp and popping it in my mouth.
“Hey, you’re not meant to eat the food in a food fight.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” She tilted her head. “I don’t know, but you’re not.”
All I could think of was licking that patch of sauce off her cheek, following the trail to her lips. “Shouldn’t we be throwing something sweet?” Like whipped cream … My mouth spoke the thought out loud before my brain had chance to catch up.
I jerked up from my chair, rubbing a hand over my head.
Her lips parted, forming a perfect circle.
And all I could think about was what I’d like to do with that mouth.
I fucking sucked at being good.
Chapter Fourteen
Scarlett
Whipped. Cream. I could already taste it on my tongue, the image of licking it off his chest, following the trail down to his ripped abs, burning into my mind.
What had been a moment of playful fun had escalated at whiplash rate into thigh trembling, stomach clenching, mouthwatering fantasies.
“What did you have in mind?” My voice was thick and heavy with lust.
But he shook his head, as though dismissing the idea.
No. He didn’t get to go and do that, not when he’d been the one to bring it up. The one driving me insane with his dance of advance, then retreat. Not this time. “Do you not want me?” A thrill of fear spread through me as my words floated on the air between us.
“Want you?” His reply was strangled, his mouth twisting in a mockery of a smile. “I think you know the answer to that.”
“Do I?” Sliding out of my chair, I moved forward, stopping at the edge of the table. The expanse of wood stretched between us, forming a barrier.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, his shoulders bunching. “You’re not an idiot.”
“Thank you for confirming that,” I fired back.
“What do you want me to say?”
That was easy. “How you feel.”
The scowl was back. “I don’t feel.”
I shrugged, determined to not let him know how much his words hurt. “Sure you do. You just don’t want to admit it.”
A wry smile. “Sweetheart, you know nothing about me.”
“Talk to me then. Let me in.”
Heat flared in his eyes as he rocked back on his heels. “Talking isn’t usually a part of what I do.”
“Then show me.” I wasn’t going to beg, but I could feel his resistance crumbling, could see it in the edge of panic tightening his eyes. He didn’t want to, but he was going to. I skirted the edge of the table, keeping my eyes locked on his. “Show me what it is that you’re keeping from me. Why we can’t be together.”
“Trust me, you don’t—”
“No. You don’t get to tell me what I want. You haven’t earned that right.”
He stiffened, biceps bunching and throat working as he swallowed back a growl. “I’m your true—”
“Not unless you claim me.” And there it was, out there in the open.
“You shouldn’t ask me for this.”
“But, I am.”
“You don’t know—”
“I thought you didn’t do talking?” Where the hell this was coming from, I didn’t know. All I knew was my wolf and I were in complete agreement, we were tired of pussyfooting around our mate. Whatever it was he was hiding, it couldn’t be half as bad as the not knowing. The time for talking was over. Tugging my top up over my head, I dropped it on the floor by his feet.
“Scarlett…” His groan was both denial and desire, his eyes flashing molten silver as they roamed across my naked skin, a muscle in his jaw jumping in time with my heart.
Taking a deep breath, I lowered my hand to my jeans, flicking the button open.
“No.”
“No?”
“Let me.” He dropped to his knees with a bone crunching thud, his hands pushing mine away.
I sucked in my stomach as he worked the zipper down, my skin burning under his touch, his eyes searing my skin. Inch by slow inch, he slid the denim down, his fingers hooking into my panties and revealing me completely. I didn’t dare look, a shudder working through me as his breath heated my skin, moist and hot.
“Are you sure you want to know me?”
That made me look. He was staring up at me, his face inches away from my short, dark curls, a look of pure torture on his face. My breath caught in my throat at the anguish in his eyes. “Yes,” I murmured.
“Because if we do this … I don’t know if I’ll be able to let you go again. I can’t claim you, but you’ll be mine.”
Any sensible woman would be yanking her jeans back up and running for the hills, but I couldn’t move. Didn’t want to. If this was all he could offer me, then it would have to be enough. Though a place inside of me hugged a secret thought, that he might change his mind, that I might change him. “I want you.”
His eyes flicked back to my naked flesh. “I have very specific … tastes.” At my silence, he continued, “You can’t touch me.”
“I can’t?”
“I have to be in control at all times.”
“You do?”
“But I ca
n promise you, I’ll make you forget your own name.”
“You will?” I was beginning to sound like an echo, but what he said was so confusing. “I’ve touched you before.”
“Not during.” He forced the words out through gritted teeth.
Oh.
His hands still gripped my waistband, each puff of breath teasing my short curls and sliding into my folds. The ability to think straight was rapidly leaving me, desire clouding any possible arguments. “Okay.” I needed his hands on my skin, his body joined with mine. I ached in a way only he could fix.
This time his groan was all animal, primal and satisfied, as though I’d unlocked something deep inside him. In seconds, he’d lifted me, pivoting on his knees and placing me against the wall. He yanked my jeans and panties down to my ankles, but didn’t pull them off. “Hands above your head,” he instructed, pulling his T-shirt off in one smooth glide.
A moment of hesitation, then my arms lifted, my fingers linking behind my head.
“Good, sweetheart,” he murmured, still knelt on the floor. Ink decorated his back, the black coiling and abstract, ending at his neck and the top of his biceps.
Invisible unless naked.
Firm hands nudged my legs wider, until the denim had been stretched to its limits. “I’m going to lick your pussy until you’re begging, until I can taste you coming on my tongue, then I’m going to fuck you.”
My lips parted on a gasp.
A low chuckle, then, “You’re going to be gasping my name, sweetheart.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but it came out a stuttered groan, his head burrowing between my legs, his tongue diving straight for my core. Spreading my folds, he ruthlessly licked and sucked, unrelentingly attacking and circling my clit, his fingers digging into my soft thighs and holding me still. Holding me open and willing.
My hands twitched, the need to dig my fingers into his hair overwhelming. I locked them even tighter, remembering his words. How would I get through this without touching him? Regret colored my thoughts, the bitter tang threatening to drag me out of the moment.