“Without your consent,” I said, a chill going down my back.
Zion spoke of his past so drolly, but as someone who’d been knocked far off her original path at a similar age, I knew too well what it felt like to have your entire identity reshaped by somebody else.
“Without my consent,” he agreed. “But do not worry yourself, Bell.”
He leaned forward, hovering his hand above mine, but not touching it. Somehow, the almost-touch felt more intimate thanif he’d actually made contact. “I assure you, we would never, under any circumstance, do that to you. As Boone told you before we revealed our shifted forms, we will never hurt you.”
The words were meant to be reassuring. Instead, they made my chest twist with another kind of fear.
“You’re going to be so disappointed,” I warned him. “I’m never going to agree to let you bite me.”
Zion regarded me for a long moment, then abruptly turned to click off the television on the show’s champion, laughing through her post-win interview. “I’m rather wiped from auditions. Shall we call it an evening?”
“Yes,” I agreed, standing up. I headed for the dresser.
I was relieved to be released from the conversation that was making me reconsider how I’d handled Ravik that morning.
Still, I found myself wondering out loud, “What does Ravik smell like, anyway?” I tried to sound casual as I rooted around my leggings and tops drawer for something to wear to bed.
“You’ll have to ask him about that,” Zion said from the vicinity of the aged leather chair where he’d dropped his overnight bag. “But I smell like raspberry jam. Which I’ve discovered can be baked inside sugar cookies. I believe that version is referred to as thumbprint.”
His voice dropped, his words rolling down my spine. “Perhaps we could make that version together sometime. I hear they’re especially delicious.”
Heat crawled up my neck, and something low in my belly tightened. It was true that thumbprint cookies were delicious.But this conversation felt dirty somehow. Like we weren’t just talking about variations on sugar cookies.
“Bell, I’ve an offering for you.”
I turned to see what he meant, only to jump when I found him standing directly behind me with another button-up shirt in his hand. This one was a dark-sage green, like the turtleneck he’d worn the morning he showed me his bear’s head.
“I’m assuming,” he said with a knowing twinkle in his warm brown eyes, “that after this morning’s activities, the other one is… dirty.”
My entire face heated this time, realizing Boone must have shared that experience over their mental bond.
Then I quickly took the shirt just so I wouldn’t have to talk about what happened to the other one.
“Good night, sweetheart,” he said.
The endearment caressed my bones.
“Bathroom’s right over there for changing. Night!” I pointed in the general direction of the cottage’s tiny toilet and fled to the loft.
Upstairs, I changed into the shirt, trying not to think about who it belonged to as I slipped it over my bare skin.
Or that amused, all-knowing look in his eyes when I took it….
Or raspberry jam being pressed into sugar cookies.
I just flopped down into bed, waiting to hear the sound of him going into the bathroom. But it never came.
Was he not going to get undressed, like Boone did before he shifted? I peeked over the loft’s edge…
To discover that yes, yes, he was going to strip.
Right in the middle of the front room. Completely naked and totally unselfconscious.
His dark body was lean and surprisingly muscled, without any of the droop of age. He folded his clothes and placed them in his overnight bag, all elegant lines and economical grace. No wonder he wasn’t the least bit self-conscious. He was beautiful underneath his academic costume.
I should look away. I knew I should look away. Give the man some privacy, for goodness’ sake.
