Another laugh pulls from my throat. I cover my mouth this time, fangs pricking my tongue.
I should go in and apologize. Explain why I stopped. I thought if she had just a fraction of the heat pulsing through her body, like I do in mine, she would understand there is no lack of attraction from my side—just the need to know she’s safe before I act on it.
But if I go back in there now—if I see her still flushed and swollen and angry—I won’t be able to stop again. There’s something about that wicked little mouth. And that heat in her scent. It’s changing fast. Her body’s preparing for me. I don’t have much time left before her ovulation hits, and then I’ll be fighting instincts ten times worse.
I press my palms against the wall. I should be strategizing.
Tracking him. Keeping her safe. Instead, I’m standing in a hallway, rock-hard, listening to my mate scream about throwing a vibrator at my face.
Kael’thurin ves’naeif she does.
The second this threat is gone, there will be no restraint left—not a single ounce.
She shouts something about me being hot, and I nearly bark another laugh.
I grip the edge of the couch, claws biting into the fabric. I try to breathe through it, but her scent is everywhere. Sweet and brazen, coating the room like mist.
Kaemorin.
I catch a glance of myself in the mirror, and I don’t recognize my reflection: My pupils are blown wide. My eyes glow brighter than ever before, and my fangs are dripping massive amounts of thraevún.
The beast in me is no longer pacing. He’s prowling.
I close my eyes and breathe deep, every inhale torturous and addictive.
I swear she’s trying to punch me with her scent. My claws sink further into the couch.
I can hear her now, growling in frustration, mocking the Vraksûn phrase I whispered into her ear: “I’ll mark you down deep only the gods will remember,blah blah blah.”
She’s playing with fire, and I want to burn for the first time in my life.
I exhale hard through my nose, biting back a grin.
Thalûn, I’m enjoying this. I have never been able to play around like this before. She may think she’s winning, but I’m not suffering in the ways she thinks I am.
This is foreplay for me—the sacred mating dance. And she’s baring her throat to the wrong monster.
Her footsteps stomp toward the hall.
I can hear the triumphant swing of her bag sliding over her shoulder. She’s completely unaware that the predator she just challenged is waiting on the other side.
I step toward her bedroom, slow and quiet, and lean casually against the wall. I cross my arms in front of my chest and tilt my head.
The second she turns the corner, she skitters to a halt. Her bag slips halfway down her arm, then drops to the floor.
Her eyes drag from my bare chest, to the tension still coiled in my shoulders, down to my claws, and then back up to meet my gaze.
I raise an eyebrow.
She opens her mouth. Shuts it. Then opens it again.
I don’t say a word as I watch her. Seeing her flustered is adorable.
Her cheeks flush, and her pulse picks up.
I give her a slow, lazy once-over, eyes tracking every inch of her body, then I look back into her eyes and give her a dangerous smile.
She crosses her arms, “You think you’re real hot shit, don’t you, frosty?”
