Page 59 of Chaos At Second Sight

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You know…the marking and the…other part.”

“You don’t say! The legendary Terminator is shy? I’m calling you Shyinator from now on.” I chuckled at my joke.

He exhaled a breathy laugh and poked me in the ribs. I yelped, moving his hands away.

“Sometimes,” he said, smiling at me, “you make me a blubbering fool.”

“Finally.” I poked him back, finding nothing but hard layers of fibrous tissues. “A little balance. You make me nervous all the time.”

“But you already have all the power, little mate.”

I beamed. I loved when he called me that.

“You just forget because you’re too busy blushing.” He pecked my parted lips.

“Logan!”

His head jerked back. “What?”

“You’re doing it again!”

“Doing what?”

“Making me blush on purpose!”

His fingertips stroked my cheek. “Not always on purpose. Anyway, before you distracted me with your cuteness, I was saying that we can⁠—”

“Yes, we can be real mates. A real couple.” I grabbed his shirt and pulled him forward. “And not just because we have to be.”

For once, Rudolph was right. We’d talked enough. Time to resume the kissing.

We were in the middle of another intense recovery session, as Logan called it, when he went still.

He lifted his head, leaving me with tingling lips, and rose in one smooth motion with me in his arms. “I need the bathroom.” He placed me back on the seat.

“But you just—” He smacked my lips—the second time he’d used that trick to silence me. I should’ve been irritated, but instead, I was graciously exasperated.

My gaze followed his broad shoulders through the crowded pub. That isn’t the way to the bathroom.

I lasted all of five minutes before slipping after him.

The metallic scent of blood filled my nose, and I panicked—my mate’s blood was mixed with someone else’s. I hurried outside, searching for a certain blond lycan. Across the street, he rounded the back of a red pickup, wiping his knuckles with a napkin. His white T-shirt was dotted with crimson, his hair disheveled, and a satisfied smirk tugged at his mouth.

“What are you doing?”

His head snapped up. “I needed air.” Red flickered through his silver irises.

I closed the distance between us and took his clenched fist. Though already healing, his knuckles were so scraped that the tattoo across them—DOOM—was barely visible.

It didn’t take a detective to solve this: Logan had punched something. Or someone.

“Care to elaborate?”

“No. Not particularly.” He shrugged and tried to hug me.

“Omitting details again?” I wriggled free and folded my arms.

“It’s a fine art.”