My intention is perfectly clear: go sleep it off. My feet, however, refuse to turn in the direction of my room. Rather, I find myself stopping by the living room to pick up some pillows and a throw. I go to him, delicately placing a pillow under his head, then another under his knees. Finally, I tuck the throw all around him.
Looking down on the world’s most adorable vampire burrito, all of my systems hum and sparkle.
Mine.
Mine.
Mine.
A growl escapes my lips, and my claws come out again. I grip the table, scratching the underside, denting the surface from the sheer strength in my hands. I pull myself forward, rubbing my swollen, jean-covered cock against the edge of the table, the desire to rut about to make me lose my mind.
I look again into the face of my adorable man, and the desire to care for and protect him is the most important thing in my world. I shake my head, baring my canines. Now the damn season is playing with my language. He’s notmyman.
He’snot.
Well…that’s silly.Of coursehe’s my man, but…
…
…
Oh.
I try to walk toward the back door, but my feet simply will not take me there.
Oh.
Remembering something my mother once told me, I grab my knife. I don’t want to do this, but I have to prove it to myself. Shaking my head, I unsheathe it and attempt to nick him, but I miss his arm and scratch the table.
Grabbing the knife with both hands, I try again, even if Miss Lillian would tan my hide for ruining her great-however-many-times-grandmother’s table.
I hold the knife above his chest and attempt to bring it down. A force more powerful than me stops the downward trajectory well short of my goal. I throw the knife on the counter, revolted by the thought of it.
I grab my gun, and it falls to the ground before I can even aim.
Shitfuckpissdamnhell.
I stomp around the kitchen, cursing to myself, throwing napkins everywhere.
No, I amnot.
I am not letting some asshole moon hormones controlme.
Those are just stupid fairy tales, and I’m exhausted. I walk toward my room and instead circle the kitchen, ending up right back next to him.
This is bullshit.
Iam not fated.
I am not fucking fated.
My feet refuse to move, and I look down at the open app in my hand, the full shopping cart undeniable proof.
Fuckfuckfuckfuck.
Fine, if I’ve got a smartphone, let’s be smart.
I pull up the private group for wolf shifters and touch the section entitledHow to Tell If This Is The One: Fated Mates.It reads like someone’s spent the last month recording my every move, up to and including my inability to knot.
