Page 57 of Chaos At Second Sight

“Done with what?”

“Staring.” A growl threaded through the word. So we stared. Another new habit.

“Caught your breath?” he murmured after a few minutes.

“Logan!” I playfully chastised.

He leaned back, folding his arms. “What? I’m your mate! After all this time, don’t you wanna do some kissing? It wouldn’t be fair to them.”

“To whom?”

“The kisses!”

I giggled at the big pout on his face. “I do want to kiss you. But we should also talk. Get to know each other.” Judging by the sun’s position through the pub windows and the different crowds around us, we’d already spent at least an hour doing very little talking.

Tomorrow, we’d fly back to Montana. Thanks to a special acquaintance of Grandpa’s, we got an emergency passport for Logan, who had brought nothing with him. I had classes waiting, Logan had wereball, and Lachlan had no more excuses to stay in Scotland.

“Fine.” He straightened. “Let’s talk.” Before I could ask what his favorite Studio Ghibli movie was, he settled me on his lap, the opposite of a soft place to sit. His lips brushed my ear. “So, when do we kiss again?”

I dissolved into helpless giggles, batting his hands away.

“There are people here!”

“They understand the importance of kissing their mate. Especially a beautiful one like you.”

“Some of them are human!”

“Humans kiss, don’t they?”

I escaped his lap and tied my hair into a ponytail, mostly to give myself something to do. He still made me shy and awkward; I often said things completely out of place, but he always enjoyed it. Thank Goddess mates are a thing, otherwise I’d die alone.

The next thing I knew, he was sucking on my neck.

I yelped. Nearby patrons glanced over.

“What?” He lifted his head, half-lidded eyes never moving from my throat. “You can’t dangle your neck in front of me like that and expect me not to do anything.”

I covered my throat with both hands. “My neck does not dangle!”

“Hey, lovewolves!” Pamela materialized with a pint—pear cider, my favorite—and set it in front of me with another steaming portion of chips and gravy.

Family friends owned this pub in Inverness, the Prancing Unicorn, and my cousin worked here part-time. Food and drinks were hearty, the crowds friendly, and above the bar hung a sign—BEST OSTRICH EGGS IN THE HIGHLANDS.

I raised an eyebrow at the drink. “We didn’t order this.”

Pamela tilted her chin toward a table across the room. “They did.”

A handful of werewolves from McDougal, a neighboring pack, lifted their glasses in acknowledgment.

“But why?”

Logan plucked the pint off the table, long fingers wrapping around the glass. “Because they want to fucking die.”

Never taking his eyes off them, he tipped back the cider—his Adam’s apple bobbing—and downed the whole thing.

“Logan, I thought you hated cider,” I said with a small smile.

Pamela snorted. Logan slammed the empty pint on the table, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then lifted it toward the McDougals. “Thanks, dudes!”