Her and those hips of hers. Dancing like the devil.
I would intervene if I thought I didn’t deserve it. But from the look on her face last night, she’d be well within her rights to drain me where I stand. This is mercy in comparison. So I take my punishment, watching as his hand roams up her thigh and along her waist, down her arm, and across her chest.
I’m not jealous. Though I can’t help but wonder if I would be, were I not cursed.
Something tells me the answer is yes, but it’s a pointless exercise to consider what I could be. There is only what I am. And right now, I’m angry.
Not because she is mine, but because he is clumsy, lazy, touching everything he can get his hands on with no regard for her or what she likes. What she wants or needs.
She deserves more, so much more.
And still, I stand by watching because I am no more deserving than he is. I don’t think any of us are.
She is too witty, too brave, too bold for them, and I am too hollow for her.
“You know I didn’t take you for a cuck, mate.”
Dred’s monotone accent is loud in my ear as he refills my drink. He’s been keeping it full in hopes it will keep me occupied enough to prevent me from ripping the horns off the minotaur. I haven’t told him it’s not working.
I growl at him, baring all my teeth.
“Shut up, before I feed you to my girlfriend.”
He waves the dirty bar towel like a white flag, and I go back to watching Iris’s breasts bounce in her tight top as she dances.
She’s had a lot of brew. More than usual. I asked Dred to start cutting them with seltzer water about an hour ago, but it hasn’t slowed her down. She continues on her tirade, tossing her head back and forth as she winds her hips.
I know she sees me watching her. Her gaze finds mine every once in a while, and I can see the challenge on her face, daring me to stop her. But I won’t. Not unless she asks me to or the minotaur makes a very stupid choice.
“Damn, bro. Sorry for your loss.”
A voice echoes faintly in my ears, and I turn, fighting every fiber of my being to tear my gaze from Iris. What I find instead is certainly less appealing.
Deacon is standing beside me, eyes unfocused and fisting a bottle of brew as he sways on his feet. He is not looking at me, but I know he is speaking to me, because he is staring at Iris.
“Excuse me?” I say, blocking his view of her and hoping for his sake that I misheard him.
“Imagine fumblingtheeIris Ashbourne,” he says, laughing as he lifts his glass in her direction. “But who can blame you. It’s hard enough keeping something like that when you’re a regular wolf. I can’t imagine how hard it must be when you’re cursed.”
My dampener constricts, and I set my drink down to keep the glass from breaking as I resist the temptation to rip the skin off his face.
“The fuck did you just say?” I snap.
Deacon’s eyes are shadowed as I look at him, dark and unfocused, but he speaks with his usual conviction.
“Is it hard?” he asks. “Faking it all the time? I bet she can tell. Probably only stays because you make her come. But you’re not the only one who can make her come. ”
His words slur, and he tosses back the rest of his drink, slamming the empty glass on the bar as a small voice pipes up from behind his slouching form.
“Deacon, let’s go. You’re going to get us severed.”
As Deacon grips the bar for balance, I peer around him to see Covington standing sheepishly in his shadow.
“You should listen to your friend, Deacon. This is your final warning.”
Deacon shakes his head, the brew making him brave, or stupid—one of the two.
“You might as well relinquish your claim,” he slurs. “It’s not like you can make her happy anyway.”
