Morgana is staying away. She’s still livid that the mortal hurt me and isn’t sure she can play nice.
I haven’t seen her since the night she sent the Forsaken after my mortal.
The moment I found out, I demanded she remove my collar. If they had hurt a hair on my mortal’s head…
I shudder.
I should be keeping my distance, too. Except I keep picturing her falling out of her fucking window again, and I’m two minutes from having a Fates-damned nervous breakdown.
So here I am, only hours after leaving, invisible in my own fucking home, trailing after her like a lovesick puppy.
At least this way, I’m less tempted to touch her.
The lie doesn’t sound nearly as convincing as I need it to be.
My resolve to stay away almost shatters when she enters my room. I don’t follow her inside, knowing that if I do, I might not be able to let her leave.
A perverse sense of satisfaction washes over me as I watch her slip away with my blanket. She’ll be wrapped up in my scent all night, exactly the way she should be.
I’ve been hanging on by a fucking thread, trying to keep my distance.
But then Damien touched her.
I know they were training, but she didn’t see the way his fucking cock twitched when she broke out of his hold and looked up at him from between his legs.
My hand clasps around her neck. I’m just going to warn her away and then go back to keeping my distance.
But then I see it, the way her skin flushes and her eyes heat, even as she furiously tries to stop reacting to my touch.
My kitten is turned on – and she hates it.
Something inside my head shifts, and my fascination with her twists into obsession.
I don’t give a flying fuck if she’s a spy.
I want her.
Hate simmers through my veins. It hasn’t slowed since the moment she admitted the truth last night.
He violated her. He took advantage of her body, and I was right there.
I could have done something. Instead, I let myself be blinded by my own emotions.
I abandoned her.
I left fighting leathers in her room while she showered, thinking she would be ready to fight back.
Instead, she’s barely had a sip of coffee, and already she’s blaming herself and thinks she owes something to that asshole.
Not fucking happening.
My kitten doesn’t feel comfortable with anger. She’s rolling over, letting others take from her, just like she did in the Mortal Realm.
Enough.
I will gladly make her hate me if it means she learns to fight back.
“A nice, easy, violence-free life is what the warm hole needs,” I taunt, loving the way fire grows in her eyes.
