4
Remy
Off to the side, I hear a rustling, and my eyelids, so heavy, flutter open just a bit. The room is pleasantly dim.
I do a quick assessment of my body, and it looks like everything’s functioning, if not yet willing to leave this heavenly bed. Praise goddess.
I haven’t felt this good since before I started dated that kidnapping jerk, Damian.
I mean, really. Who kidnaps his own boyfriend? Regardless of the fact that I was about to leave him, I’d made him his favorite breakfast that morning.
No matter. I’m supremely comfortable and…warm. Sowarm. I run my hands along the bedding and hit something furry. I blink the remainder of the sleep out of my eyes and finally focus. Then scream bloody murder, my fangs snicking down instantly.
There’s a wolf in the bed with me—no, he’s too big, longer than I am.A dire wolf. His eyes pop open, and he whines, nuzzling up under my chin as I try to scramble off the bed. My body isn’t cooperating just yet, but he pulls away on a mournful sound, shifting back to his human form. Frozen, I don’t know where I am or how I got here.
Or, frankly, where to look.
His features are a wildly beautiful combination of fierce and squared off, with a long, oft-broken nose and piercing gray-green eyes that somehow make it all work. My eyes track down his powerful chest and thick thighs, which are hairy in the extreme, and my mouth hangs open at his rather ostentatious morning glory.
Grinning, the man pulls the sheet up enough to restore decency as he scratches his manly chest. Goddess, I am never not a harlot for furry nipples.
“Mornin’, cher. It’s nice to see you up. I’m Lazare.”
My body jerks in recognition of that rough Cajun accent. He cared for me yesterday. I smell his blood in my veins, and there’s a pulsing in my groin from it.
Lazare's shoulder-length black hair is shot with silver, as is his scruff of a beard. His skin is sun-kissed, and his hair-covered muscles are lean-ish, with enough heft to be strong.
Lazare's warm hand presses my shoulder back to the bed, and the touch sends a shiver through my body.
“Hey, did that hurt?” this Lazare asks, sounding concerned. I chance a look up at his face, and the thrumming attraction between us threatens to break through when our eyes meet. He's looking at me with an intense expression that reads almost fond, and this sense of overwhelmingrightnessmakes my heart happy.
“I'm good, thanks. Just not used to be being touched.”
Even when I’m completely insecure, I was taught to sound sure of myself, and those lessons are coming in handy right now. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I’m a hot mess on the inside.
My business below is swelling, my skin is vibrating, and my eyes are darting here, there, and everywhere. Sensory overload kicks into a new gear, and I reach out to grab him, uncivilized, sharp-pointed claws sprouting from my fingertips.
“What is happening to me?” I ask, lisping through my fangs.
“You feel it too? The crazy attraction?” His eyes seem almost desperate for confirmation.
I nod, completely thrown. “Yes. What is this?”
“I—um.” He scratches the back of his neck.
“Out with it, sir. Am I having a reaction to your blood?”
“Maybe?”
“Maybe? What is maybe? Sir—Lazare—please just tell me. Am I dying?”
A gentle hand reaches for my face. “No, cher. Nothing so terrible. We’re just fated, yeah?”
“Fated? As infatedfated?”
He shrugs, holding up his hands. “Apparently?”
“Why are you saying that like a question?”
