“It’s a punishment. Apparently, you decapitated a training dummy?”
“More like embedded it on a wall.”
She grinned. “I brought dinner. The diner was still open. Pancakes, because I know your stance on time being a construct.”
My heart did that thing it did around her. The full-body lurch that felt less controlled with every passing day, more desperate, closer to the surface.
“You’re my favorite person,” I said.
“I know.” She pulled the containers from the bag and set them on the bench. “Eat first. Then you can show me around.”
“You’ve been here before.”
“Briefly. With all three of you hovering.” She popped the lid on a container and the smell of blueberry pancakes filled the bay. “I didn’t get to actually explore. Now I can.”
I ate. She sat cross-legged on the bench and stole bites off my plate while telling me about the bookshop. Solomon had built the romance alcove she’d wanted, and apparently the exposed ceiling beams had turned out better than expected.
Mira was animated, hands moving while she talked, and the pendant swung at her collarbone with each gesture.
I watched her mouth more than I listened to her words. Terrible habit I couldn’t stop.
When the food was gone, she stood and wandered toward the gear racks. Her fingers trailed along the turnout coats hanging in their designated slots, each one tagged with a name. She found mine and ran her thumb over the nameplate.
“VALDRIS,” she read. “All three coats say the same thing. The Valdris brothers.”
I watched her fingers trace the stitched letters. “Fewer questions when everyone shares a last name.”
She pulled my turnout coat off the rack. Then she slid her arms into the sleeves. It swallowed her. The coat hung past her thighs, the sleeves extending well beyond her fingertips, and she had to roll the cuffs four times before her hands emerged. She grabbed the helmet off the shelf and settled it on her head, the visor tipping forward over her eyes.
My brain short-circuited.
She kept doing this. Stealing my clothes, drowning in my shirts, borrowing my jackets. And every single time, my wolf lost itsmind. My scent wrapped around her body, soaked into her skin, marking her in a way that was more primal than any bite.
My jeans got painfully tight. Fantastic.
“How do I look?” She struck a pose, hands on hips, drowning in gear.
“Ridiculous.”
“I think I look heroic.”
“You look five years old wearing her dad’s clothes.”
She tilted the helmet back with one finger. Those mismatched eyes found mine, bright with mischief, and my wolf paced against my ribs.
“The buckles are wrong.” The words came out before my brain vetted them. “The chest clips. You’ve got them twisted.”
I crossed the space between us. My hands found the front of the turnout coat where the closure buckles had crossed over each other. She’d fastened them incorrectly, the chest strap sitting too low, the collar loose around her throat.
“Here.” My fingers worked the first buckle free. The metal clinked as I unlatched it, straightened the strap, and refastened it properly. My knuckles brushed her collarbone through the coat’s inner lining.
“And this one.” The second buckle sat at her sternum. I adjusted it with both hands, pulling the strap taut, and the motion brought my arms around her, bracketing her body inside the coat.
Mira went still.
Suddenly, we were aware of every inch of space between her body and mine.
I looked down just as she looked up.
