I had, for the record, never stolen anything in my entire life. At least not anything from a store, museum, or someone’s back pocket.
Certain folks argued otherwise.
According to my dad, I stole his heart the second I opened my newborn eyes. According to Uncle Andrew, I was a serial thief in my daily life, snatching the hearts of were-boys. According to my mother, I stole Aunt Margaret’s beaver fur coat when I was ten, but we all know she did it and framed me, as no one would take it out on sweet, angelic Yvaine.
On this particular morning, I behaved exactly like a professional who had just snatched the loot of the century—a suspicious shadow darting from corner to corner, ducking behind trash bins, and peeking around flower pots. If anyone saw me, they probably would have assumed I was about to rob the neighbors. Or install illegal Wi-Fi.
I was a were-woman on a mission. And probably on theine.
The danger increased when I reached my building. Instead of using the stairs like every other sane person, I climbed the exterior walls like a spandex-less Spider-Woman…something I’d never done before.
Once inside the safety of my room, I exhaled the stress that I’d been hoarding in my lungs. I locked the door, gave Zeus a quick pat, yanked off my DNA hat and UV sunglasses, and threw myself on the bed.
My hand, with a consciousness of its own, fished my loot out of its plastic bag. Glancing at my door, I peeled back the protective film and held up my new prized possession: a full-size, glossy poster of the Dark Diamonds quarterback, Logan Draven. I’d bought it from a newsstand.
With cash.
No bank evidence of my treason.
Logan stood there, in the foreground, one clenched fist reaching to the sky as if summoning lightning like the Thor he was, his signature smirk full of challenge. His blond hair was pushed back, with one solo strand falling over his forehead, merging and becoming one with the jagged scar cutting his brow. The infamous number 8 stretched across his chest, and those legs—dear Stephen,those legs—stood on display, sculpted for sprinting through rivals and hearts alike. His liquid eyes, pools of silver, stared back at mine…those same eyes that I was sure had stolen too many hearts. He was the king of the bandits.
The poster caused me premature ventricular contractions…or, in other words, it made my heart skip a beat.
I hung it up like it was ancient art…then panicked and shoved it behind my calendar. Changing into my pajamas, I shuffled out to the living room to work a little.
Studying wasn’t really a chore when it was something I loved—it felt more like a puzzle I needed to solve. Before I knew it, I was deep into diagrams and notes, the scribble of my pen theonly sound besides the occasional thump of my heel hitting the chair leg. I didn’t notice how the minutes turned into hours, nor what was occurring around me.
The front door burst open. My pen froze mid-scribble.
“He has a mate! I’m telling you!” Tiziano torpedoed in with my brother trailing behind, dripping like a human-size Labrador. With a green-and-blue towel around his neck, wet hair curling up on the tips, I could discern half-healed wounds littering his body, certifying the violence of the pre-match training. I was already scrambling to get my first-aid kit.
“Anyone could have posted that picture and spread the rumor,” Lachlan said around a mouthful of steak sandwich, dumping his gym bag on the floor.
“What are you two even talking about?”
They both leaned down, kissed my cheeks, and peered at what I was doing. Tiziano snatched the paper straight from under my pen and scanned it with ravenous pupils as he read.
“The Masturbator has apparently found his mate.”
“Who?”
“Ah, the Terminator.”
Thank Stephen I’d just finished my second cappuccino, or I would have suffocated and died right there on my highlighter-stained notebook, never knowing what they had to say about the matter.
“Why?” I squeaked.
They gave me matching confused looks.
“I meant, um, ah! Cool.” I coughed a little, gnawing my lower lip, then dabbed a cut on Lachlan’s arm like nothing was wrong.
“No one knows who she is or how long it’s been.” Tiziano grabbed a red apple, then spread himself across the sofa.
“I say the jerk just ran outta stamina and needed an excuse to keep his groupies away.”
“Nah, I say someone chopped his prick off after he screwed their mom. Or sister. Or both.”
I winced, thinking about the great loss of blood if that had really happened.
