I'd sobbed my eyes out against Hunter's shoulder, his arms strong and protective as they wound around my quivering form. I lifted my face and stared at him through teary eyes, finding solace in his embrace and much-needed warmth on his lips when we kissed.
Neither of us could stop ourselves from taking things further when he held my hand and led me to my bunker. I'd been vulnerable, all my walls so far down that the passion we shared sparked awareness to something more profound than bodily pleasures.
He was my fated mate. I saw it in a vision just as he fell asleep on our first night together. I'd stopped myself from telling him right away, and our secret relationship went on for almost two years before he was pulled out for a stealth mission and came back as a different man.
A man who called our engagements “fun” and thought I was crazy to think that we were fated mates.
Heartbroken, I thought I'd buried away the genuine feelings I had for him. I was crushed back then and spent the last few weeks in black ops as a shell of my former self until we retired.
Now that I've been sprung back into his presence, I'm forced to face the simple fact that, despite his denial, we are fated mates.
There's a part of me that wishes I could leave sooner than planned, the vacation-of-sorts in Portland doing more harm than good for the pieces of the heart I had to stitch back together. But returning to Scarborough only means that I'll be hopping from one hot pan into another when I have to deal with this ridiculous betrothal my parents planned for me.
Groaning, I slide further into bed, allowing the sheet to cover my face. Sleep feels forced, but I'm determined to find it, squeezing my eyelids shut until the darkness behind them morphs into the violet whiffs of smoke that appear when I'm about to astral travel.
Being part witch has its perks, like getting to escape into other realms when I'm transcending the fine line between wakefulness and sleep. That trance-like state brings with it flashes of pretty images, like a swing dangling from the branches of a tree overlooking a gushing river, with the peaceful sounds taking me further away from my harsh reality.
Tonight, as I see the image spark to life behind my eyelids, there's something different about the way I feel. Unsettled. Not peaceful.
That's when I feel the warmth of a pair of hands grabbing my arms and abruptly pulling me from my quiet time, snapping me into the throes of darkness surrounding me.
“Hey! What the—”
My voice cuts off when one of those hands covers my mouth, a pair of glistening black eyes glaring at me.
“Don't make a sound,” a raspy voice whispers, and my eyes widen with shock and recognition at the eyes staring back at me. “We don't wanna wake Emily.”
Hunter?
My voice is muffled when I call out his name, my fight instincts nearly kicking in to counterattack him.
I've trained for this; I’m skilled in getting out of these kinds of situations. But having Hunter's hand cupping my mouth, the other gripping my arm tightly, is both intriguing and shocking all at once.
My heart pounds with reckless abandon, anger brewing inside as he slowly removes his hand from my mouth. I snatch my arm out of his clutches, refusing to face the awareness of a mate bond he'd denied.
“What are you doing?” I growl lowly, anger fueling the venom on my tongue as I scowl at his face, barely visible in the darkness except for the cynical glow in his blackened eyes.
He seems to hesitate, sighing and closing his eyes as he takes a step forward. His approach is met with indifference when I move back, my body tensing as he reaches out toward me.
“Hunter!” I exclaim, perplexed by the calmness he radiates, as if he didn't just wake me.
As if he didn't just steal into my room in the dark hours of the night, pulling me out of bed.
What is he up to?
“I'm sorry, D. I have to do this,” he whispers gently, as if his voice is meant to console me.
My anger gives way, and I choose to fight, fists ready when I lunge for him.
But he's also skilled, and nimbly dodges my attack with a side swipe, still reaching out toward me when he manages to grab my neck. He presses two fingers on my scent gland, applying pressure.
“I'm sorry, D,” he repeats just as a strange odor consumes my airways as darkness pulls me into an unconscious state.
***
Stirring awake, my head feels heavy as I bat my eyelids and adjust my vision to the blinding brightness that surrounds me. The last thing I remember is attacking Hunter before he touched my neck, and instinctively, I try reaching for that spot and find I can’t lift my hand.
Gasping when I see the leather bands tying my wrists to the armrests of a leather-padded wooden chair, I chuckle mirthlessly, lifting my head and training narrowed, calculating eyes on my captor.
