“What did you wish for?”
I hadn't thought about it in years. “To feel like I belonged somewhere.” I’d never fit in with the kids at school because I said the wrong thing, wore non-trendy clothes, and never understood their kid jargon.
I glanced at him. “What about you? Did you make wishes as a child?”
Dray didn't answer right away. “I’ve been wishing for the same thing for eight years.”
Eight years was very specific, and it was eight years ago I got my tattoo.
We were sitting close enough that our shoulders touched. My tattoo was warmer than the rest of me, and though I was getting used to that, I hadn’t come up with a reasonable explanation for why it was happening.
“This place suits you. You seem lighter than when you arrived.”
“Maybe it's not just the place.”
Shoot, did I just say that? I could pretend I was talking about Arthur’s food or the fresh air. He turned toward me and our lips were inches apart. His gaze lowered to my mouth. Every heartbeat echoed in my head, and I so wanted to close that distance. Dray’s hand moved to cup my chin, but he pulled away and I was tempted to yell, “Whatever you were going to do, dothat.”
He mumbled about needing to go but he’d be back later to cut the branch. He leaped up and was down the stairs while I was still on the floor. His truck starting up rumbled in the distance, and I put my head on the floor and curled up.
I stayed where I was until dawn. I touched my lips because I’d been expecting a kiss and I was disappointed. The house was so empty without him, and my tattoo was achy. But he showed up in the afternoon with a chainsaw and a ladder, as well as his trusty box of tools.
“Let me know if you need anything,” I called from the porch and went inside to tackle more of the unpacking. I made it through one box before wandering up to the turret, which wasn’tintimidating in the daylight, and apart from spiders building their webs, I was alone.
Dray had cut the offending branch and was on the ground pruning the bushes. I shouldn’t be staring at him, it was a little creepy, but I leaned against the window watching him work.
Today was warmer than the previous few days, and Dray’s shirt was drenched in sweat. He was partly hidden by the foliage as he wiped his brow with an arm and yanked off his shirt. His chest belonged in a fashion magazine or on a runway.
Shit. I gripped the window ledge as my legs threatened to give way. The room spun around, and I closed my eyes, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
On his left shoulder in black, red, and orange ink was a tattoo of flames and greeny-blue scales. It was the same one that was hidden under my sweater. But that couldn’t be right. The foliage was creating shadows and I was imagining it. The angle was wrong. That had to be the reason I was seeing things.
I pressed my face against the glass like I used to as a kid, but Dray was in full view and so was the tattoo. Placing a hand on my shoulder, the warmth underneath seeped into my palm as I tried to fathom what was going on. His tattoo was identical to mine, with the same colors and curves.
This wasn’t possible. People didn’t get identical tattoos. No, they did when they chose them from a book or the internet. But Dray’s was in the same place as mine, and the style was identical, as if they’d been done by one person.
I backed away from the window and put a hand to my heart, telling it to calm down. After almost tumbling down the stairs, I went into my room and searched online for the meaning of matching tattoos, but nothing much came up.
I dredged up memories of Aunt June saying there was no such thing as coincidences as the skin under my tattoo sizzled.I considered jumping in the shower but a knock sent me reeling against the dressing table.
Dray had his shirt back on when he told me he was done.
“Are you okay?” He squinted at me.
I mumbled that I was tired, and he left, saying over his shoulder he’d get a new window seal. I was glad when he was gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
SIX
DRAY
“So when are you going to tell him?”
I looked up from my plate to find Garrett grinning at me from across the table. Around us the family barbecue was in full swing, with kids chasing one another and people arguing about the best way to cook steak. My aunt was doing her usual sampling of the desserts.
“Tell who what?” I knew exactly what he was talking about, but I needed time to prepare an answer.
“Oh, you know, that omega who’s your fated mate.”
Every head turned toward me, and I inwardly cursed my cousin for bringing it up.
