One bed. There is nothing my wolf wants more than to take her to bed.
He scented her and hasn’t stopped pushing for more. He can smell every part of her, and the sweet, floral scent is driving him wild. Hours would not matter to him at all. When my wolf is in full control, human concepts like time do not mean anything, and that part of me is becoming more needy with every second I stand here.
My muscles tense and relax, straining against my wolf. She is a witch and this is not real. It is the only logical conclusion.
I don’t let the desire drive me wild. I’m a soldier. Trained and hardened.
I can withstand a wild desire from my wolf. I can keep him under control.
I can keep myself under control. My hands flex at my side as I glance back at the door, the rain pounding against it.
The storm or the siren in front of me. Fucking hell. My eyes drift back to the gorgeous woman, and I hate the reality that I will never mate. There is no wolf in the world for me. I am fated to be alone, which means these desires can only hurt me.
Because if I tasted her—if I touched her—if I attempted the ritual to claim her as mine?—
It would fail. I cannot claim her as mine. I will not have a mate. No wolf will ever be my fated mate.
But, a small voice in the back of my head says, she is not a wolf.
Those thoughts are so far down any potential path that I should not even be having them, yet I cannot stop the images from filling my mind. I have only heard a handful of words out of her mouth, and I can already imagine how her moans would sound. I have not touched her, but I can imagine how her sweet curves would feel under my palms.
I swallow down all the feral noises I want to make and the filthy words I want to say. I forcefully stop thinking of all the delicious images of her spread out on a bed or in a pile of blankets on the floor. I do not let a single image come to my mind except for what is right in front of me—the witch, standing near her worktable, watching me right back. She swallows thickly and my eyes are drawn to the little dip in her throat. Fuck me.
I cannot take my eyes off her. I cannot pretend I want to look anywhere else. I cannot pretend I would rather be out in the storm, smelling mud and wet grass and lightning.
“I just,” she starts, a flush creeping up her cheeks. “There’s only the one bed.”
I nod my head without thinking, hoping it looks polite and restrained. “I can sleep on the floor.”
Chapter Seven
Idalis
I’m out of the habit of existing in close quarters with others. It’s been far too long and I find myself out of sorts. Almost curious but also apprehensive with every sound he makes.
I should’ve realized that before, I suppose, but no one has stepped inside my home since I lost my coven. That also means no one has slept under my roof since then. No one has needed anything of me since then. The shifter’s presence is as if the storm is now brewing inside me.
It’s not that he is loud—he is not. He is almost entirely silent. Which I find intriguing. He’s quite large with broad shoulders and his handsome form is at odds with the cozy warmth of my home.
By the time I offer him a bed on the floor, it has to be late evening. The bed consists of an array of pillows and a knitted chenille comforter on top of three thick quilts, one of which I’ve had since I was a little girl. It’s enchanted and the fact that he held it without consequence is a good sign. I remind myself of that as I shift under his heated gaze. The sound of the rain has carried me—both of us—through the day. The hours came and went. It is still, I think, earlier than I would normally go to bed but?—
I do not know how to converse with the wolf and my thoughts are preoccupied by the absence of magic. What exactly has happened? Nerves prickle their way through me and leave me with unease. So he should sleep, so I may think of a way to undo all of this. Immediately.
I do not think I could fall asleep now even if I did get into bed. The idea of drifting off to the sound of rain is laughable with this muscled wolf taking up all the room in the cottage. It seems so commonplace to offer him tea and food, but he insists he does not need either. Still he looks at me, nearly through me, as if he is starved. It’s unsettling in a way I’ve not felt. The heat and tension are palpable although I pretend they are as nonexistent as his appetite.
I’ve been alone so long that even a single, tall, handsome soldier is enough to take my breath away. Swallowing thickly, I ask him if he needs anything, to which he shakes his head no. It’s odd how I long for him to tell me “no” so I may hear the rough timbre of his voice and even odder that the moment I have that thought, he does so.
“No, thank you,” he says, and my heart betrays me with a little flip and then a skip in my chest. I find it hard to breathe every time I look at him. I cannot just go about my bedtime habits while he stands there.
I have so many questions for him that my mind buzzes like a beehive, but the tension keeps them trapped inside. It is so thick between us that my face will not cool down. I must be as red as the midsummer roses along the back gate. My heart beats hard, as if he’s watching and waiting for me undress. I’m only standing at my worktable, but I feel exposed—and desperate to get behind his leather armor to the soul concealed inside.
I keep asking myself what it is about him that makes me feel this way, but surely it’s obvious, I’ve not seen a man in so long. Let alone one so…delicious. Hardened muscles and rough stubble… I am a woman after all…and not blind to his charm.
I pat my hands on the skirt of my dress and steady myself.
“I was thinking of making some tea and a little food before I turn in for the night.” Does my voice seem as loud to him as it does to me? It can’t really be helped—the rain still roars on the roof—but suddenly I have no idea what the right volume is, or whether I’m using it. “I know you said you’re not hungry, but would you like to sit in the kitchen while I do that?”
He rolls his shoulders, looking uncomfortable. “I would be happy to help.”
