I should have told him. Should have explained before I ever touched him that he was different, that he was mine, that I'd never felt anything like this before. But I'd assumed he'd know. Assumed the claiming would speak for itself.
He's human though. He doesn't have lion instincts telling him what a bite mark means, whatminemeans. He just had my actions—and then my pack's careless words—and he drew the obvious conclusion.
I can't even blame him for it.
The sound of tires on gravel makes me freeze.
I know that engine. Robin's Audi.
I'm at the garage door before I can think better of it.
Robin's parked in the lot, standing by the driver's side, talking through the open window. I can hear him from here, that sharp protective tone he gets when it comes to Toby.
"—and if he hurts you again, I'm going trophy hunting. I'll mount his head on our wall."
"Robin, stop."
"I'm serious. I know taxidermists."
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. Toby's here. Toby'shere.
He's wearing a plain t-shirt. No cardigan. The marks on his neck are gone except for some faint yellowing that could be mistaken for shadow. Even from twenty feet away, I can smell that my scent is completely washed away. He smells like himself now—books and tea and laundry detergent—with no trace of me left at all.
He's not mine anymore.
The thought makes my lion howl.
The entire pride has materialized behind me. I can feel them—Jason in the doorway, Vaughn by the window, Ezra and Silas trying to look casual by the bikes. Everyone holding their breath. Everyone watching to see what happens next.
Toby walks toward me, chin raised, shoulders squared. He's trying to look confident, but I can see the tension in his jaw, can smell the anxiety underneath the forced calm. He stops about six feet away—close enough to talk, far enough that I can't touch him.
He doesn't quite meet my eyes.
"I left some things here."
His voice is steady. Practiced. Like he rehearsed this in the car.
"What things?"
"My cardigan. The yellow one with cats."
The one he was wearing that first night. The one that was soaked through when he stumbled into my bar, that he'd pulled away from his body to show me the different cat expressions, chattering about vintage shops while my entire world rearranged itself around him.
The one that's been sitting on my dresser for days because I'm pathetic. Because it still smells faintly of him beneath the laundry detergent and rain, and I've been sleeping with it like it's some kind of lifeline.
"It's upstairs," I say.
"Can you get it?"
"You can come up—"
"I'll wait here."
Right. Of course. He doesn't want to be in my space. Doesn't want to see my bed, my bathroom, all the places where I touched him and held him and made him think he was special before my pack's careless words destroyed everything.
I turn to go, but something makes me stop. Turn back.
"Did you leave anything else?"
