As Newt sipped the hot water, Vaughn tried not to think about how a beautiful creature had landed in his wreck of a life, lighter than air and somehow heavier than anything he’d carried in a while. Newt wasn’t meant for a world like this, but he was somehow here anyway.
“So,” Vaughn said, dragging a fingertip through the ring of condensation the mug had left, “next lesson. That thing in the corner is a toaster. It’s a tiny metal traitor. Let me show you what it does to an innocent slice of bread.”
Chapter Two
Newt was a straight-up idiot. One moment he was hovering near the ceiling, panicked and trying to figure out what to do. The next, Vaughn had somehow talked Newt into coming to his bedroom. Apparently, he had zero guardrails when it came to his mate.
He sat on the bed, wincing as Vaughn plucked the pine needles from his long hair. He couldn’t have done it on his own. Not when his magic was acting like a drunken toddler with a flamethrower. He probably would’ve ended up as bald as a plucked chicken. Every careful tug sent a small sting across his scalp, yet there was something unexpectedly calming in the patient rhythm of Vaughn’s hands. Like maybe he thought if he went too fast or was too rough, he might shatter what little composure Newt had left.
He was barely holding it together as it was.
What Newt should’ve been doing was figuring out how to get back home, not melting because a stranger’s fingers knew how to separate hair from debris without yanking too much. Stranger. Right. That word felt outdated now that he knew Vaughn was his mate. Which only complicated the heck out of things.
Alliance first, feelings later, his father had said when he’d arranged Newt’s marriage a year ago. Had anyone asked what he wanted? Did anyone care? For cricket’s sake, he hadn’t even met the woman he was supposed to marry. Not that he wanted to. How many times had he argued with his parents that he was gay and marrying a woman would be like a toadstool and an ox exchanging vows?
But every time he’d tried to explain, his father would pat his shoulder with that heavy hand, saying, “You’ll understand when you’re older.” His mother’s lips would purse into that familiar thin line that meant the conversation was over before it began. The Twistboots had arranged marriages for nine generations. His “preferences” weren’t about to break that streak.
Newt’s protests might as well have been whispers in a windstorm, swept away like they didn’t matter.
“What made you come here?” Vaughn’s voice was the kind of low, steady thunder that seemed to rumble through you. The kind of sound that could pull you out of your own chaos and into his steady orbit.
“Exploring,” Newt said, his words tumbling out way too fast. “You know. See the sights. Almost die by a vampire welcome committee. Normal tourist stuff.”
“Hmm.” The bed dipped as Vaughn shifted closer. Careful fingers combed through another knot and paused. Against Newt’s skull, the slightest tremor shivered through Vaughn’s hand.
Newt tilted his head, curious despite every good sense he owned yelling not to pry. “Why are your hands shaking?”
Silence stretched just long enough to make him regret opening his mouth. He winced then rushed to soften it. “I mean…are you okay? Do you need—” He gestured uselessly. “Tea? A chair? Twelve chairs?”
“They’re fine.” The tiny tremble settled after a breath, as if Vaughn had pressed a switch somewhere under his skin.
They weren’t “fine,” but Newt decided not to press the matter.
“Hold still.” Vaughn’s breath warmed the top of Newt’s head. Metal scraped lightly. Tweezers, probably. “These little bastards hide.”
“They’re dedicated,” Newt muttered. He smoothed the blanket under his palm, tracing the weave with a fingernail. “What are you?”
A pause then, “Wolf shifter.”
Soft surprise flickered through him. He’d pictured teeth and arrogance, not the quiet steadiness or hands that moved like Vaughn had practiced being gentle. “Oh. Right. Okay. You’re, uh—” He glanced up and then immediately looked back down, feeling his cheeks growing hot. “You’re big, like a wolf should be…I think.”
Since Vaughn was the first wolf shifter Newt had met, he had no idea if huge and muscly were wolf shifter standards or if his mate was a gorgeous exception. It wasn’t as if Newt had taken the time to check out the other men who'd rushed from the house. He'd been kind of busy trying not to die.
Another needle dropped into the growing pile. Just how many did he have in his hair?
“What about you?” Vaughn asked. There was a stillness in his voice, a quiet weight that made the air seem heavier. “Seelie or Unseelie?”
The air was definitely heavier. Most preternaturals saw Unseelie and thought only of dark magic and blood rituals. They never considered that some of them just wanted to grow flowers and drink hot water from microwaves.
“Seelie,” he said, keeping his tone mild and hoping his face didn’t scream liar. “From far away. Very far.” He tugged the blanket edge. “Where toasters fear to tread.”
Nothing in the room moved except Vaughn’s hands and the slow, stretching shadows thrown by the lamp. His fingers quivered against Newt’s scalp, sending tiny vibrations down each strand. Newt pretended not to notice the faint tugging at his roots.
“Last cluster,” Vaughn murmured. “Almost done.”
Newt shouldn’t want to lean back into those muscles. He definitely shouldn’t like how careful Vaughn was with him.
The silence that followed seemed to stretch. Every beat of it made Newt more aware of the quiet pull that kept circling back to the man behind him.
