“Castles? Swords? Candles for light?”
“Yes. That is accurate.”
I tried to picture it. A whole world of werewolves living without electricity, without cars, without modern conveniences. It sounded both romantic and deeply inconvenient.
“Must be weird being here then,” I said. “Culture shock and all.”
“It is overwhelming.” He was still staring out the window, watching buildings pass by. “But also fascinating. Your world has accomplished much without magic. It is... impressive.”
We pulled into the parking lot of the hardware store. I parked, killed the engine. Malachar visibly relaxed when the car went quiet.
“The beast sleeps again,” he murmured.
“I’m going to stop correcting you.”
We got out. I grabbed a cart and headed inside. Malachar followed, and I immediately noticed the stares.
Women. A lot of women. All of them looking at Malachar.
I couldn’t blame them. He was objectively gorgeous. Tall, muscular, with that dangerous edge that probably featured heavily in their fantasies. Add in the messy man bun and the scars visible at his collar, and he looked every inch the romance novel hero come to life.
A blonde near the paint section did a double-take. Her friend whispered something, and they both giggled.
I was not jealous. I had no reason to be jealous. He wasn’t mine. This was a purely professional arrangement. He worked for me. That was it.
So why did I want to march over there and tell them to stop staring?
I grabbed paint cans with more force than necessary. Sage green for the walls. Warm cream for the trim. Some brushes. Rollers. Drop cloths.
Malachar was oblivious to the attention. He was too busy staring at everything else. The fluorescent lights overhead. The rows of merchandise. The price scanner at the checkout.
“How do you light all of this?” he asked, looking up at the ceiling. “There are no candles. No torches.”
“Electricity. It’s complicated.”
“Everything in your world is complicated.”
“You get used to it.”
We were heading toward the checkout when a familiar voice rang out. “Gwendolyn Woods! Is that you?”
I froze. Turned slowly.
Mrs. Santos was bearing down on us, a vision in purple velour and too much jewelry. She was one of my grandmother’s oldest friends. Nosy as hell. Gossiped more than a tabloid magazine.
“Hi, Mrs. Santos,” I said weakly.
“I haven’t seen you in ages, dear!” She was already eyeing Malachar with open curiosity. “And who is this handsome young man?”
“This is-”
“Malachar Ashborne,” he cut in smoothly. He actually bowed. A proper, formal bow that looked completely out of place in a hardware store. “It is an honor to meet a friend of my mate’s family.”
My face went nuclear. “He means-”
“Oh my!” Mrs. Santos clutched her chest. “I didn’t know you were in a relationship! How wonderful! Your grandmother would have been so pleased.” She beamed at Malachar. “You’re a lucky man. Gwendolyn is a treasure.”
“I am indeed lucky to have her.” Malachar moved closer, and I felt his hand settle on the small of my back. “She is strong, intelligent, kind. Everything I could have wished for in a mate. It is an honor to stand beside her.”
