I was so close. Closer than I have ever been before. Something about being here is making my lost memory seem more accessible.
The woman, Neith, laughs at something one of the others says, and I can’t help but stare.
She’s beautiful, but more than that, she’s fierce, and strong, really fucking strong.
She met my gaze.
Most supernaturals cannot do that. I was mildly surprised that Ransom, Raiden, and Coen could, but not entirely, since I had seen Ransom fight. The fact that they all seem to be able to hold my gaze with no problem is certainly surprising.
Even the Hunt struggles to do so.
It’s instinctual, and because of what I am.
Neith doesn’t seem to be uncomfortable or uneasy in my presence at all. None of them do, and I’m not quite sure what to make of it, or whether to trust this feeling of belonging.
I don’t think I have ever truly belonged somewhere. Not like these people all belong with each other, and how I find myself yearning to be a part of it.
It’s absolutely not a feeling that I am used to.
Her gaze finds mine, and I can’t help but let some of my power free into my gaze. Instead of glancing away and looking fearful, she grins, challenge lighting up her gaze and making me smirk as something I long thought was dead stirs within me.
She’s something else.
River keeps the conversation flowing, and I find myself wanting to tell them what little I know about myself as they share things about themselves.
Despite the circumstances that brought us here, and the fact that I really don’t know them at all. I like them.
I don’t like anyone.
“After dinner, we can show you to your room,” Doc offers, after a particularly amusing story about River and Coen and some shaving foam. He frowns, “We probably should have offered that to you first.”
I look down at my mud-stained and bloodied tatters that are barely passing as clothes and wince.
“I’m sorry. It has been such a long time since I’ve had a meal that I haven’t had to hunt for that you probably wouldn’t have been able to convince me to go and clean up first anyway,” I tell them honestly, relieved when they laugh and don’t take offense.
“I would be exactly the same,” Neith admits, and although at first I think that she’s joking, it’s clear that it isn’t the case when the others just nod in agreement.
“Especially if there is bacon involved,” Reed adds with a fond smile.
Neith shrugs, “You’re not wrong.” Her attention turns back to me, and I have to remember how to breathe as she asks, “So what . . .”
There’s a flash of magic.
My claws and fangs descend, and my sword appears as I push away from the table, ready to defend these people.
“Whoa, it’s okay, Baz, it’s just Winston,” Ransom says, as they all watch me closely but with no real fear, which is new. “He’s one of Neith’s spirit guides.”
I lower my sword so that it’s not digging into the neck of the rather pissed-off-looking raccoon and glance over at Neith.
She grins, “I like your claws.” My eyes widen with shock at her compliment, and then I have to fight for my damn life to repress a rumble of desire as she waves at me, showing off her own set of claws.
Fucking hell, that’s hot.
My memory pings, but I don’t know why.
“For goodness sake, we do not have time for this,” the angry little raccoon grumbles from the middle of the table.
Why he appeared there, I don’t know.
