“Fucking grocery list of locations: Asgard, Midgard, which is the Realm of the Living, places with giants, places with elves, places with dwarves, places with just fucking beasts on fire,” Aric rumbles off some examples.
“The emptiness where you come from,” Latham scoffs with a sexy smirk that reveals a dimple just above the corner of his lip.
“Fuck you! Don’t mock my home. I will strip your flesh down to bones and feast on the sloppy leftovers.” Aric shoves his hands into his pockets as he mumbles something about dragon magic.
“You’re a dragon shifter?” I look at the tattooed man at my side, trying to figure him out.
He peers at me with that magic burning in a ring around his pupils, then he nods. My attention slides down his muscular frame, the hard build of his posture and even the rough caress of every word he speaks. He truly seems like a dragon in a man’s body. He appears more beast than he is man.
“And you’re…” I glance at Latham.
“A fenrir. Son of Loki. My inner shifter is a hellhound. I try not to let him out too often.”
Something about the way he phrases it makes me prod further. “But you can shapeshift into other things… people even?”
He nods. “The magic of the gods,” he tells me.
The oddity of Mrs. Linskey’s behavior tonight circles my mind. She’s most likely curled up in her favorite afghan at home watching reruns ofThe Price Is Right. She was never in that clearing, and that chills me to the bone more than the snow ever could.
Latham is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
He might be the most dangerous one of all.
“And the other man, Torben. Can he shift?” The desire to know them and figure out what I’m up against keeps the questions flowing off my tongue.
Latham smirks.
“No,” he replies.
“Well. That’s not entirely true,” Aric says with a sharp smile slicing up his lips. “He quite frequently shifts into a total jackass.”
Latham closes his eyes hard as a wide smile overtakes his handsome face. But then he stops in his tracks, then nods to the small cottage with the blue shutters.
“That’s your place,” Latham whispers.
My chin lifts and just seeing my house grounds me. The loneliness and the hurt of the last fourteen years slams into me all at once.
Why am I coming back to all of that?
And if I could, would I truly want to stay?
Chapter Eight
Here, Kitty Kitty
Latham
The lights are off in the small cottage. I don’t sense a soul, but I hold Rhys back, keeping her hidden in the shadows. Just to make sure.
We didn’t come all this way to fuck up over a house cat.
Not that apprehending the girl Hela sent us to collect has gone all that smoothly.
Never once have I run into a person quite like Rhys.
Usually mere mortals cower from the sight of us. Or piss themselves after witnessing our infernal powers.
It’s like their puny little brains can’t handle the truth of the world and their insignificant place in it.
