Outside, the sky was getting pale, a faint blue sickle slicing through the last of the stars. I felt the urge to run out the door, down the road, into the woods until I could breathe again.Instead, I leaned back, braced myself for what I knew was coming.
She asked, “Do you believe in fate?”
It took me a second to answer. “Not in the Hallmark sense. But in my world, there are… rules. Some of them can’t be broken. Or if you do, something breaks inside you.”
She looked at me, unblinking. “Explain.”
I set the glass down and ran my hands through my hair. The bourbon had my tongue loose, but my mind was racing. “In shifter culture, there’s a thing called fated. Not just sex. It’s like… a chemical lock. You see a person, and you just know. No matter how fucked up or wrong or impossible it is, you want them. More than food, more than blood. It’s forever.”
Her eyes widened. “Like imprinting?”
I nodded. “Worse. Because you can’t turn it off. Even if you try.”
She went very still. I watched the understanding bloom on her face—curiosity, then fear, then something like hope. “You knew? When you saw me?”
I gripped the chair arms to keep from lunging at her. The first time was when I saw you on TV. You were standing at the funeral in the rain, and I felt it.”
She let that sink in. “That’s why you keep coming back.”
“Yeah.”
She drained her glass. “It’s not just you. I feel it too. And I hate that I can’t explain it away.”
I smiled, sharp as a wolf. “You’re smarter than most.”
She shivered. I could see it, even in the growing dawn light. The bourbon and the talk and the tension had made her body electric, every nerve ending on a hair trigger. The scar at her chin was flushed, and I could smell her skin—salt and whiskey and want.
She reached for the bottle, and I did too. Our hands met, and the zap of contact was violent. She gasped, dropping the bottle to the desk with a clatter. The air in the room changed, got heavier, almost humid.
I watched her pulse hammer at her neck, the mark there a living thing. My vision doubled, then tripled. I felt my teeth go sharp, claws wanting out.
She saw it happen. Her lips parted, just a little.
“Does it hurt?” she whispered.
I shook my head, barely keeping it together. “Only when I fight it.”
“Then don’t.”
We sat like that, hands tangled on the bottle, both of us seconds from tearing the other to pieces or falling into bed, maybe both. The sun edged over the horizon, splitting the room into gold and shadow.
I let go first.
We didn’t make it out of the study. It was like the bourbon had lit a fuse that burned right through both of us, and when she reached for the bottle again, I didn’t wait for another invitation. I grabbed her wrist, and for a second I thought she’d flinch or fight. Instead, she went molten, climbing into my lap like she’d been doing it all her life.
Her knees straddled my thighs, silk robe sliding open at the hem. Her hands found my jaw and yanked me into a kiss—none of the delicate, polite bullshit you get on TV, but a brutal, open-mouthed, almost savage clash. Her teeth scraped my lower lip. I tasted copper and bourbon and her, and I couldn’t get enough.
I wrapped my arms around her waist, hands locking at the base of her spine. Her body was so warm it nearly burned through the cotton of my T-shirt. She rocked forward, pressing herself into me, and I could feel the electric buzz of her skin,the hard beat of her heart. My own pulse hammered in my ears, louder than any gunshot.
She tugged at my shirt, twisting it in her fists until it tore at the shoulder seam. I let her do it, let her see the ink and the scars and the raw, animal body she’d been flirting with all night. She ran her hands over my chest, nails scraping hair and old scars. I wanted to mark her in a dozen new ways.
She pulled back, just a breath, eyes gone wide and glassy. “Fuck,” she muttered, the word almost reverent.
I grinned, showing just a little fang. “Still scared?”
She shook her head, then bit her lip. “Not nearly enough.”
She moved her hips, grinding down against me, and the pressure nearly snapped my control. I growled, low in my chest, and she grinned back, proud of what she’d done. She kissed me again, then slid a hand down my stomach, fingers splaying over the bulge in my jeans.
