She blinks, then nods, moving quickly to the sofa. She grabs the biggest one she can find and spreads it out in front of the hearth. I pad forward, lowering myself onto it, never taking my eyes off her.
Discreetly, like she understands me, she averts her eyes, and the change comes fast—muscle folding, fur sliding away, bones crunching. It’s over in seconds, and I’m kneeling on the blanket, human again, breath ragged. Lila turns just as I pull the edge around my waist.
I stiffen, wondering how she’ll feel when she sees me as a man again.
Her gaze travels over me—at first wary, then searching, then something else entirely.
Slowly, she steps toward me.
Her hand comes up, tracing the line of my jaw. The touch burns through the chill that’s left in me.
“You could have told me, Holt,” she whispers again.
“I didn’t know how.” My voice shakes. “I didn’t want to trap you. My kind… when we find our mate, it’s for life. There’s no undoing it. I didn’t want to take the choice away from you.”
She studies me for a long moment, eyes steady. “And if I choose you now?”
I can’t breathe. “You’d be mine. Completely. And I’d be yours. Forever.”
“Forever?” she echoes, her voice low and breathy.
Her palms rest against my chest, feeling the beat of my heart.
“It’s a lot to ask of a human.”
She draws back and there’s fire in her eyes, and a hint of sternness, too. “Oh, I’m ready, Holt. I’ve been ready since I was eighteen.”
I close my eyes for a long beat. “I should’ve understood. Should’ve trusted you.”
“Yes, you should. But I’m here now, and that’s what counts.”
Her fingers slide into the hair at the nape of my neck, tugging just enough to drag me forward.
We’re kissing again.
Years of distance collapse between us, replaced by the softness of her mouth, the press of her body. The small sound she makes when my hands encircle her waist.
The kiss deepens, not rushed, not desperate—just full of everything we never got to say.
She’s so tiny in my arms, but she kisses like a woman who knows what she wants. She tugs at my hair, slips her velvety tongue into my mouth.
My hands slide lower, over the curve of her hips, fitting her against me the way I’ve imagined too many damn times. She’s warm everywhere, soft in all the places I’ve dreamed about.
The sound she makes when I lift her onto my lap goes straight through me.
Her thighs tighten around me.
That one, simple pressure nearly undoes me.
I’ve dreamed about this for five years, but the reality of her—her heat, her curves, the way she clings to me without hesitation—makes every version I imagined feel thin.
Her sweater rides up when she arches to kiss me deeper, and my fingers catch the bare strip of skin at her waist—soft, warm, perfect.
She pulls back just an inch, eyes searching mine. “You can touch me, you know.”
“I am touching you.”
“I mean like you want to.”
