Silas bit his cheek hard, fighting back against the animal that threatened to make it impossible for him to drive. Any interest he might have had in Rasmus was blown away like smoke in the wind.
Climbing into the car, Silas didn’t spare a thought for the way the man continued to stand there in the parking lot, staring at the journal in his hand like he couldn’t decide if he should throw it into the drainage ditch or not. He didn’t care what Rasmus chose to do with the journal.
Only one thing mattered, and she needed to be in his den.
Now.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Neither of them spoke.The air was too thick for speech, and there was little to talk about, anyway.
Silas drove with a proprietary hand on Petra’s thigh the entire ride back to the house. Touching her was the only thing keeping him tethered to some semblance of sanity. If he stopped, he worried he’d snap.
Despite the cool air blowing from the vents, sweat slid down the back of his neck in thin rivulets. His jaw ached from clenching it so hard. Every few seconds he’d stroke his palm up and down her supple thigh, too greedy to stop himself.
C’mon,he silently commanded himself.Don’t fuck this up. Just make it back to the den in one piece.
Fear gripped his throat and squeezed. It battled with raw lust scorching a path through his body and the overwhelming urge to claim her, wholly and completely.
He’d let her down once and nearly lost her because of it. His rut was an inevitability — and hopefully a pleasurable one — but he couldn’t allow it to hurt her.Hecouldn’t hurt her. Not by becoming distracted and steering the car into a ditch, and not by getting too caught up in the moment, either.
It was still too soon. His father said he needed to give her a week. Silastried.He would have continued to try, if Petra didn’t make her wishes clear.
But he was tormented by the thought of causing her any harm. For as impulsive as he was, Silas didn’t just lose control. Even during his past ruts, he’d always maintained a clear head. It was something he’d partly attributed to being only half demon. He acted rationally, always in his best interest, and didn’t care who he hurt in the process. Now he understood that it wasn’t his nature or his genetics that had spared him the worst of the rut. It was missingher.
His hand shook on her thigh. Beneath his palm he felt the plushness of her flesh, the slight give of her muscle, and the brittle bar of her bone. She was so fragile. All it would take was one thoughtless move, a rough touch, and she’d shatter.
An electric jolt ran up his arm when Petra laid her hand over his. She didn’t turn to look at him. Her gaze remained fixed on the sight of the house’s driveway when she simply informed him, “I trust you, Silas.”
You shouldn’t,he should’ve said.That’s stupid.
But he didn’t say that because in his heart he’d always be selfish and mean and desperate for her.
He’d take whatever she gave him, whether it was good for her or not, because he was too damn hungry for her to resist.
Parking in front of the familiar white-washed face of the house, Silas let out a long, shuddering breath. It took immense effort to remove his hand from her thigh, and if he’d dared to look at her, he was certain he wouldn’t have been able to do it.
Unfolding himself from the car felt wrong. His nerves were shot, each one vibrating with need, and his shadows writhed in and out of him, pulsing across his flesh in time with his accelerated heartbeat. For want of something to do, his shaking hand anxiously rubbed a horn.
The air was heavy with the scent of green things, dusty earth, and the peculiar note that summer sun imbued. Normally he liked it, but at that moment all he wanted to do was chase it away with the scent of his mate — Petra’s delicious blend of salt and arousal and incense.
“Demon? Aren’t you coming inside?”
His gaze darted to where Petra stood on the porch. She watched him from the shade, one elegant hand on the doorknob. Her expression was tender, like sheknew.
“Your necklace,” he grated, stuck there by the car.
Her brows furrowed. She lifted a hand to touch the heavy gold charm that hung between her breasts. “What about it?”
“There’s more.” Gods, talking was so hard. Words fragmented on his tongue, and the shards scattered before he could reassemble them.
“More… what?”
He had to close his eyes, blocking out the sight of her, before he could force out, “Glamour. Protection. Location. I built them in.”
He needed to rework some of it, obviously, since the ward to keep people who meant her harm triggered both too late and not powerful enough. Vanderpoel should have never been able to aim the gun at her, let alone shoot. Clearly Silas had been too cautious with his sigilwork.
But that wasn’t the only protective ward he’d put into it — and the other one he knew for certain wouldn’t fail.
