“Pants. Now. You’re coming with me.”
“I will not.”
“Yeah? I think you will.”
I turn and march away from him into the shop, then stop at the center of the room and brush the mark on my chest. The air swirls with ink in front of me and he appears with a groan.
“So, it’s not voluntary?” I ask.
“Obviously,” he annunciates each syllable with exasperation.
Oh.
My god.
I can’t help but laugh. “Wow, I bet you are regretting this.”
He lunges to his feet with a grimace creasing his face. “Like you gave me much of a choice.”
A sudden pang strikes a chord of guilt in my gut, but that’s bullshit.
“You didn’t givemea choice,” I say. “You held me up against a wall and demanded I bring back your book while refusing to release mine to me, or toleave. This ismyhome.Mybusiness.My second chance!”
I stomp my foot with the final declaration. I’m panting and glaring up at him, willing him to acknowledge how fucked up this is, and that it’s his fault.
Bastian stands taller but his expression softens. “I, too, have nowhere else to go.”
And there’s the man again instead of the pouty, grumpy monster. I shake my head, trying to clear the emotional fog from my mind.
“I sunk all my money—my whole future—into this place. I have nothing but Oscar, and my special editions, which are currently being held hostage,” I say, scowling up at him.
“This is my final refuge, and those books are…” He growls as he trails off.
“They’re what,” I say, crossing my arms.
“My lifeline,” he admits angrily.
“What do you mean?”
“As you assumed, the books are keeping me alive. Without their stories, I will cease to be in this universe, returning to the source.”
He’ll die without my books? Is that possible?
Are dragons a real, possible thing? No, but here he stands, right in front of me.
I let out a long breath and close my eyes.
If my books really are keeping him alive, how could I take them away?
“Caitlin?”
My name murmured from his lips is something I didn’t know I needed, but now I know the way his mouth shapes the “A,” how his tongue wraps around the “L,” and his throat rumbles on the “N.” I want his mouth curling against my neck instead of my name.
Ohmygodwhatthefuck!
I must be ovulating.
“You’re aroused again,” he says, a lilt of amusement in his words.
