Warmth suffused my cheeks at how impossibly good it felt when he held my hand. Even though I was drunk, I could still remember that lingering lovely feeling.
“Yeah. But that’s all innocent. Other guys have done that.” But now that I thought about it, no one really did on the same level as Nico.
“Not for a werewolf.” I could hear the smile in her voice as she went on. “To them, touch is a form of communication and, um, declaration.”
“What is he communicating and declaring exactly?” A burst of butterflies scattered like buckshot in my belly, because I was pretty sure I knew what it meant.
She huffed out a sigh. “And I always thought you were the smartest of my sisters. When it came to men anyway. Gotta go. I’m cooking dinner just in case Mateo wants something other than raw deer.”
“Ew.”
She laughed again. “You get used to it.” She said that as if she was giving me personal advice.
I was actually relieved when she hung up. And then aggravated. She’d never answered my damn question!
Was he lonely out there? I slumped down and let my head fall to the back of the bench so I could gaze upward. The moon pulled me again. It beamed brightly through the craggy, leafless branches, swaying in the gentle breeze. What was he doing at this very moment? What was he thinking?
I hugged my arms across my chest, remembering the many times he found a way to touch me in some innocent way in the office, the shop, even at the Cauldron. Was this some werewolf courting ritual to stake your claim?
Now that I thought about it, he had freaked the fuck out when that guy Shane touched my wrist.
I waited for it.
The outrage at some guy thinking he could claim me without my permission, exerting his caveman, possessive bullshit without even asking.
But the usual resentment I felt every time a guy had tried that shit before never came.
Instead, all I could do was stare up at the moon, remembering the sad look in his eyes when we talked about his tattoos. The forlorn wolf inked into his arm said so much about the man who bore it. For the first time in my life, I longed to soothe that ache, to share that burden, to wrap my arms around him and make it all go away.
“Fuck.” I sighed.
Evie was right. I wanted him. Bad. So, so bad.
I stared at the endless, glittering stars, winking at me as if trying to whisper their secrets. I pushed out my psychic magic, letting it hum an aura around me, thinking of the man at the forefront of my thoughts.
“Give me an answer.”
But my magic wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t send me the message I longed for. And the stars only blinked in benign indifference, mocking my frenzied state. All I could do was wrap my arms more tightly around me and wonder what to do. And hope for a sign.
Chapter 14
~NICO~
* * *
The ripping of my skin and breaking of my bones didn’t even hurt anymore. Much. The shift was painful, yes, but fast. As soon as I’d become the nine-foot monster standing outside the cabin, it wasn’t the physical pain that lingered. It was the hollowness echoing inside my chest, my heart. My lonesome soul.
Jerking my snout toward the sky, I howled up at the moon. An aching, long wail that went unanswered. That’s where the true agony was.
We need her.
The gruff voice of my wolf in my head didn’t startle me. His will became my own this time of the month. He also erased any pretense that I could hide from what we both wanted most. The one woman who would satisfy us. Complete us. Fill this hollow ache in my chest, my soul.
When I had been with the Blood Moon pack, there was a unity among us that kept the piercing emptiness away, the reminder that we might be monsters, but we weren’t alone. Still, living with a pack was dangerous. We were dangerous. It was safer to be on my own. That way, no one got hurt. No one suffered. Only me.
A feral growl rippled through my chest. The beast was unhappy and restless.
Bring her to me.
That was impossible. Violet was still denying what we could be. While she did, I couldn’t and wouldn’t cross that line. No matter how gutting it felt when the wolf made our needs known. Like now.
I ran. I fell to all fours then whipped through the swamplands, relishing the sound of small animals skittering out of my way. I didn’t want blood yet. I wanted to run. The cold wind on my face, caressing my fur, stinging my eyes, numbing me from the outside in.
I huffed and pounded my way up a small hill onto a man-made levy to keep the bayou water to one side, away from civilization. I galloped to the top then watched the moon glistening on the water, fractured like white glass. Night creatures moved in the brush and trees. In the distance, the stealthy walk of a deer splashed in water. Still, I wasn’t ready for blood.
Tilting my head toward the sky, I howled again. That deep part of me yearned for an answer. For some reply to the hopeless longing throbbing in my veins, pounding in my aching heart. The beast had full sway, snuffling the air for a scent of her. Man and beast sent a mournful cry up into the night.
Hoping.
Craving.
Longing.
But as always, there was no answer. There never was.
Chapter 15
~VIOLET~
* * *
After a restless sleep, I chugged two cups of strong coffee and headed for the shop, deciding to check on Fred before I met my first client. It was early, and I doubted even Sean, Tom, or Lindsey were there yet, which is why the sight I found out in front of the shop had me stopping in my tracks.
There were parts of the sidewalk all along the lower Garden District where the concrete bordered a small section of soil for small trees and shrubs. It added to the homey garden-like aesthetic of the neighborhood.
Outside Empress Ink, we had a long thin border of crepe myrtle trees, which would be full of purple blooms in the spring. Right now, they were bare of any blooms or leaves at all. But they were wearing sweaters. I shit you not.
Clara stood next to the third and last tree, the only one without brightly knitted clothing. She hadn’t noticed me because she was chatting away, while knitting, to the grim leaning against the brick wall next to our entrance. He wore faded jeans and a leather jacket, his jet-black hair hiding most of his profile as he lifted a cigarette to his lips. Henry Blackwater, Sean’s older brother.
“So you’re kind of on a stakeout but without hiding in a nondescript car around the corner?” asked Clara.
“Something like that.” His voice was low and deep and soft but not gentle.
“You know, cigarettes are really bad for you.”
“I’m a grim. I’ve got a long life.”
“Doesn’t matter. Supers can still get sick, which can take years off your life. Instead of living three hundred years—well, how long do grims live anyway?”
“Why are you doing that?” He gestured toward the crepe myrtle in the last square plot of soil bordering the sidewalk.
“Yeah, what are you doing?” I asked, hands on my hips.
I ignored the brush of darkness radiating off of Henry. Way stronger than his baby brother’s aura. A grim’s aura tended to make humans focus on their baser, darker urges. Right now, I was just getting more irritated. Not at Clara, really, but at…
At what?
I’d become increasingly more aggravated since the day Nico left. And that was only two days ago. Dammit, what was wrong with me?
“Violet! Isn’t it adorable?” She gestured wide to the colorful menagerie of covered tree trunks. “I’m yarn bombing you.”
“Ah. Gotcha. And why are you yarn bombing me?”
She smiled brightly at my silly question in Clara fashion, her long blond hair loose down to her hips.
I caught a pulse of magic. Not threatening, but…something. When I glanced at the grim, knowing full well it was coming from him, he remained casual as you please, blowing out a stream of smoke into the cold morning, dark gaze still on my sister.
&nb
sp; “Because it’s pretty, Violet. And your trees will now be nice and warm till spring.”
“Of all the things I have on my plate, I wasn’t really concerned about my trees.”
“Which is why you’re lucky to have such a thoughtful sister.” She beamed at me as she continued knitting the last sweater onto its new owner. “Besides, Bernard was definitely getting too cold on that last freeze.”
I knew better to ask, but I did anyway. “Bernard?”
She pointed to the skinniest tree on the far end. “That’s Bernard, then Lucy, and this is Doyle.”
“Trees speak to you?” Henry took another drag on his cigarette. Strangely, his question wasn’t mocking in the least.
“Not with words.” She slid a shy smile to him. “But they feel. Like all living things. I just prefer to give them names.”
“Why?” he asked in the deep, indifferent tone.
“Because it makes me feel good.”
Clara’s need to coddle and nurture all living creatures, right down to the nest of sugar ants that set up a residence in our cupboard last winter, was nothing new to me. And yes, I’m serious about the sugar ants. Rather than allow me to spray them with insecticide, she reorganized the shelves to allow them to keep that one, providing a dish of brown sugar for them.
I wasn’t in the mood to argue with her about this latest exploit of hers and, honestly, tree sweaters just made us look more Bohemian, which was kind of an allure in this part of New Orleans. I turned to the grim. “Sean asked you to come?”
He pulled his gaze from Clara to me and stubbed his cigarette out on the concrete before standing. “Ruben.”
Clara interrupted. “Are there really some werewolves bothering you?” She reeked of concern.
I shook my head. “Nothing I can’t handle. But Nico is just”—I shrugged a shoulder—“you know, cautious.”
“Mmhmm.” She smiled. “I know how Nico feels.”
“What does that mean?” I stepped closer, then glanced at the grim, knowing he could hear our whole conversation. “Never mind. Let’s talk later.”
I stormed off, irritated that yet another sister seemed to recognize the simmering attraction between myself and Nico. I suppose we weren’t fooling anyone. Not even ourselves.
By the time I’d unlocked and opened the door to the shop, Clara was already back to chatting up the silent grim acting as sentinel.
Honestly, I wasn’t even sure how he could help if a whole gang of werewolves showed up. As far as I knew, all grims could do was appeal to a person’s darker nature. And for werewolves, that wasn’t anything we wanted. But if Ruben trusted him, then I was fine with it.
I flicked on the lights as I headed down the hall to the back entrance. After unlocking the door into his courtyard, I relocked it from the other side. I didn’t want anyone traipsing back here to Nico’s private residence. A place I now felt perfectly natural invading myself.
Fred clucked at me and pranced around the grassy area, which he’d apparently commandeered as his personal territory. I went over and petted him on the chest how he liked. After about three minutes of that, he was done with me.
I took my keys out and went inside Nico’s house to fetch the feed he’d left in the closet in the foyer. After spreading some feed for Fred in the grass, I went back inside to wash my hands.
Afterward, I couldn’t help but wander his quiet domain. I wasn’t about to go upstairs to his bedroom because that felt too invasive, but I couldn’t help but peruse his bookshelf to discover what books interested this man.
I didn’t know what I expected, but historical biographies was not it. Napoleon, Winston Churchill, Queen Elizabeth I. The one I found most interesting was Lord Nelson, an admiral of the British Royal Navy in the 1700s.
“You are just full of surprises, Mr. Cruz.”
I trailed my fingers along the spines till I saw a few photographs on one shelf. There was one of him and Mateo in front of a stone fireplace in what looked like a ranch house. Then another of them much younger, maybe late teens, sandwiched between two men, one looked exactly like an older version of Mateo and a silver fox on the other side.
I remember Nico mentioning that he’d grown up with Mateo, his uncle and his grandfather. The last picture squeezed my heart for a different reason.
It was a pretty brunette woman taking the selfie of her and Nico. Nico held a precious little girl on his shoulders. She had chubby cheeks and brown curls and she held a stuffed bunny triumphantly over her head. Behind them was a carnival stand, a carousel in the distance.
I couldn’t look at it long before my stomach flipped with that nauseous feeling again. If he had a daughter, that was great. Right? She looked adorable. And the woman looked, well goddammit, she looked kind and lovely. I’d never been the jealous type. I never wanted a guy long enough that warranted envy.
I was not a fan of this feeling.
Pushing down the wretchedness, I moved on, finding a shelf with more books. Poetry?
Who was this man?
Here I’d thought he was just this broody, somewhat cocky, loner who liked to hop from town to town, playing bar-room gigs and such. But just like everything else in the world, there was so much more beneath the surface.
There were some classic collections: Frost, Dickinson, Thoreau. Then some modern ones I didn’t know at all. I pulled out one by a poet named Kahlil Gibran. There were sticky notes marking some pages. I flipped open to one of them.
The poem was about fear. A metaphor about a river, flowing on and unable to go back. Because going back was impossible. A profound and beautiful reflection on not allowing mistakes or regrets to guide you. Or fear. Nico had obviously read this one many times, highlighting a few of the lines. He’d even made a pencil notation. Three words. Let it go.
As I slipped the book back into its place, I saw the journals. The one he’d had open on the coffee table the last time I was here wasn’t there. I really shouldn’t snoop in his journals. But wouldn’t it give me better insight into who he was? No harm in that, I told myself, biting my bottom lip.
I wanted to walk away, but I couldn’t.
“Just one peek,” I whispered to myself before snagging the brown, leather-bound one in the middle.
Taking a seat on the sofa, I flipped toward the beginning. I suppose I was expecting some kind of dated diary entries or something. But that wasn’t what I was looking at. I scanned the first page, marveling at the lyrical beauty of the words in verse. Then the next and the next. I was hypnotized by this little glimpse into the man I was currently obsessing over.
And what a glimpse it was. Pages and pages of loveliness. Drafts that had been scratched out, then rewritten. But all ending in something utterly beautiful.
“Do you like them?”
I jumped right out of my skin, snapping the journal shut. Nico stood in the entryway of the living room, a backpack at his feet. He looked haggard, bags under his eyes and two-day-old scruff, almost a full beard already. Even so, he took my breath away. And not just because he scared the shit out of me.
“I’m sorry, Nico.” I popped up and went to the shelf, putting it back. “I didn’t mean to snoop.”
“Yes, you did.” But his mouth ticked up into a half-smile when I turned around. “Did you like them?”
There was a soft vulnerability to the question, in his voice. I nodded.
He moved closer until he stood beside me, staring at the neat row of journals.
“You’re a poet,” I said stupidly. For someone who was never at a loss for words, I couldn’t come up with anything better than that.
“A songwriter, actually.”
“You write songs?”
“I do.” Now he was grinning down at me, only a foot away. “What did you like about them?”
“Fishing for compliments?” I arched an eyebrow, trying to play off some of the sexual tension ratcheting up like a fucking rocket at the moment.
“Yeah,” he said evenly, leaning in even closer. �
�From you, I’d beg for them.”
I gulped hard at that. His gaze dropped to my throat, skated a little lower, and then slowly rose to meet my own again.
I’d heard of werewolf hangover, the aftermath of a full moon excursion. And maybe I’d noticed Mateo or Nico act like this before, but for some reason, it was wreaking havoc on my lady bits this time.
There was a feral look in his eyes. And some other raw emotion that sizzled off his skin. It was said the wolf lingered following the full moon, just beneath the surface.
Today, I knew that was true. There was magic—wild and potent—pulsing in the air around him, now encircling me as well. His slow movements actually made me feel more nervous rather than put me at ease. I stared at the journals, a little afraid to meet his gaze though I could feel him staring at me. A blaze of heat licked along my skin.
“Why haven’t you tried to sell them as your own? Your voice is amazing.” That was the damn truth. “You could be a rock star if you wanted.”
“I don’t want to.”
“What?” I finally turned my head to look up at him.
“I could’ve had that life. Had a contract offer with a studio in L.A. about ten years ago.”
“A lucrative contract?”
“Very.”
“Then what was so unappealing? People would kill for a voice like yours, a talent like yours. To get offered something like that?” It wasn’t that I thought him ungrateful. I just didn’t understand why someone would spit in fate’s eye and say no thanks to potential success like that.
“Guess I’m just broken inside.” His steady, unwavering gaze eased over me with torturous slowness. “A werewolf should never live in the spotlight anyway.”
“Devraj did. He was a Bollywood superstar for years.”
“He’s a vampire. There’s no chance of him suddenly shifting into a raging monster in front of a stadium of thousands.”
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