I stare at him,my eyes probably as wide as saucers right now.
I’m not sure why it hits me as hard as it does. I was already ninety-nine percent sure I was right, but hearing him say it... I guess I’d been expecting a denial, and now I have to face the fact that shifters exist and I’m living with them.
My gaze dips to his mouth, then his hands. Specifically the ends of his fingers. Try as I might, I can’t picture claws and fangs. I guess there’s still that tiny part of me that needs proof. Needs to see it again for me to believe it one hundred percent.
He raises a dark, surprisingly elegant eyebrow. “You don’t believe me?”
“I—” It’s ridiculous, but, “No. Not really.” Even though I was the one to accuse him, now that he’s admitted it, I’m struggling to accept his answer. Maybe I am still concussed because I’m making no sense right now.
He sighs and sits back in his chair. Faded denim clings to defined thighs as he spreads his legs, and it’s easy to see the raw strength in every part of him. “Would you like me to show you?”
“What?” I snap my eyes up to meet his, and my breath catches. They’re so blue, framed by thick black lashes, and if he wasn’t the monster from my nightmares, he’d be hot as fuck.
Oh, who am I kidding, he’s still hot like burning.
Just terrifying too.
“Would you like me to show you,” he repeats slowly, studying my face. “Because clearly my word isn’t good enough.” There’s an edge to his voice, not irritation exactly, but something that skitters down my spine and raises the hairs on the back of my neck.
I thought we’d already had our pivotal moment, but this right here might be it instead. It’s the middle of the day, my head is clear. If he shows me proof of what he is, there’ll be nothing to do but accept it as truth. “Yes,” I murmur, nerves making me shiver. “Show me.”
He closes his eyes and inhales.
I hold my breath, not daring to even blink in case I miss something.
When he opens them again, they’re still blue but brighter than before. Intense in a way I can’t put my finger on. But the effect they have on me hasn’t changed, and I feel that stare in the pit of my belly.
Without looking away, he opens his mouth, and I watch, mesmerised, as his jaw cracks and his teeth lengthen into fangs.
Sharp-looking, huge, and strangely hot,fangs.
They’re real.
Shifters are fucking real.
I can’t tear my eyes away. He must realise, because he holds his hands up, forcing me to look at them instead. I gasp, sucking in a great lungful of air, because the tips of his fingers now end in claws. Long and as lethal looking as his teeth.
“Believe me now?” The words are slurred as he talks around those giant fangs, and all I can do is nod. The evidence is staringme in the face, and unless I’m hallucinating, or dreaming, Lynx Harper is a fucking shifter.
He slowly runs his tongue over the end of one of his fangs. I don’t know if he meant it to be erotic or intimidating, but a flare of heat curls low in my stomach even as my mind tells me to run far, far away. Clearly that concussion dislodged a few brain cells.
I blink and he’s back to normal.
“Are you scared, Morgan?” It’s just as soft as the first time he asked, but there’s a wariness to his gaze that wasn’t there before.
Despite the heat still warming my lower half, I am.
I’m terrified.
Of him.
Of his club. Hispack.
Of what happens now.
But I tilt my chin up and meet his eyes, forcing my voice to remain steady. “Yes.”
His gaze darkens, but I can’t read whatever’s hiding there, and then he stands, towering over me and whispers, “You should be.”
