Running a trembling hand through his hair, Atticus forced himself to walk at a normal pace. His legs wanted to run to her, but his brain balked at crossing the short distance.
He needed to get a grip. How could he help her if his head was a disaster? Atticus knew better than this. He’d beenraisedto be better than this.
Atticus gritted his teeth and slowly sank onto the edge of the mattress. Carmine was huddled against the wall, hidden beneath the sheets, but he could tell by how tense she was that she wasn’t asleep.
“Doll,” he rasped, daring to give her ankle a featherlight squeeze. “C’mon. You’ve been ignoring me all night. If you won’t tell me what’s wrong, then can I at least see your pretty eyes?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m worried about?—”
“Why do you think they’re pretty?”
Oh.Atticus blinked. Most women would have taken his compliment at face value or dismissed it altogether, but ofcourse Carmine didn’t. He got the sense that she took nothing at face value. Everything was mulled over, picked apart, and reassembled in that keen brain of hers.
Normally he wouldn’t have minded explaining himself to her. Unfortunately, that particular question made heat crawl up the back of his neck. “You, uh… They’re blue. And big. You’ve got nice eyelashes, too.”
They’re fucking gorgeous, and when they look at me, I can’t feel the ground under my feet anymore. Because I’m a rabid, horny idiot who should be put down with a tranq gun or a brick at your earliest convenience.
“Do you thinkI’mpretty?”
Atticus began to sweat. Too late he realized he’d never taken his hand off her ankle. It’d turned into a shackle. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t pry his fingers loose.
“Yes,” he answered, so hoarse it barely sounded like a word.
Carmine was silent for a second, leaving him in wordless agony, before she asked, “Would someone else think I was pretty? Michael?”
He’d had broken bones before. Plenty of them. He’d also broken more than his fair share in other people.
Carmine’s innocent question shouldn’t have meant anything to him, but when the words hit him, he felt a familiar wet snap somewhere in his chest. Like she’d reached into him with one of those perfect, delicate hands and broken a rib as easily as snapping a twig.
Blood roared in his ears. For a split second, he could have sworn his vision went black. Then it went red.
It was a very, very good thing that Michael was still a thousand miles away. If he’d been there, Atticus wouldn’t have hesitated. There would have been no thoughts, no regrets. The instinct to fight for an anchor, to annihilate all competition, wasso loud it drowned out every civilized notion he might have once possessed.
But Michael wasn’t there. He was back on the estate, innocently going about his business, maybe chasing after Serafina to give her parents a break or shooting the shit with the other guards. The knowledge that he had no idea what Carmine even looked like, let alone spoken to her, helped dull the sharpest edge of Atticus’s rage. Enough to speak, at least.
“What the fuck is with you and Michael?” The urge to rip the sheets away from her so he could see her face was a loud, mean one, but he still had some sense in his head. He was jealous, not completely heartless. If he started losing his cool like that, she’d freak out and never trust him. Rightfully so.
Luckily he didn’t have to wrestle with the urge for too long before Carmine’s huge blue eyes peeked at him from beneath the sheets. Little red claws, filed down and glossy, gripped the edge by her cheek.
“I was just wondering.”
“Yeah? Well, stop wondering. Of course he’ll think you’re pretty. Everyone will. You’re gorgeous, Carmine. Anyone who looks at you is fuckin’ blessed. Got it? But if I hear a word about Michael anywhere near you, I’ll?—”
Atticus somehow managed to stop himself before he said something he had no right to say. Carmine could seek out whatever companionship she desired. Michael could, too. What if it turned out that she was the demon’s mate?
Demons would tear down the whole world for their mates, and that was exactly what Carmine needed. Someone who’d go to war if she was threatened. Someone who’d risk everything to keep her safe. Someone who’d let her explore who she wanted to be and who’d give her all the glittery shit her heart desired and welcome her perfect little bite and?—
But when Atticus tried to picture it, when he imagined Carmine gracefully crossing the threshold of Michael’s cottage with a lovesick smile on her face, her arm wrapped in the demon’s symbiotic shadows and her skin covered in his scent…
Atticus’s world went red again.
Chapter Eleven
A soft handtouched his thigh. The muscle jumped. His eyes swung back to Carmine, his vision tunneling until she was his sole focus. She’d dropped the sheets and sat up. Her hair was mussed and her cheeks were flushed.
He didn’t like how cautious she sounded when she asked, “Why are you mad? What did I do? I’m sorry about earlier. I don’t know why I threw a fit. I’ve never— I’m sorry.”
