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She slid one onto a plate and fanned it.

I put the box and my phone on the counter. Her eyes darted to the box. Then she grabbed the piping bag and squeezed icing onto the edge of the blade. She pushed it across the island to me. I smirked down at it. Picked up the warm knife and took a bite of the handle. Heat and ginger exploded on my tongue.

“Delicious,” I said.

“You like it?” she asked hopefully.

“I do. But…”

Her smile faltered. “But?”

“I’m craving something else.”

“Something else?” she asked, playing coy.

I dragged my tongue up the blade, lapping up the frosting, and her eyes dilated.

My phone buzzed against the counter. Hollis.

Merry Christmas in July. I need a favor.

Hollis never needed anything. I turned the phone face-down without answering.

The confusion on her face lasted exactly as long as it took me to open the box and pull out a coil of battery-lit Christmas lights. Her eyes widened. The blush crept down her throat, past my mark, and between her breasts.

I lowered my head. Rolled my shoulders. Let her see my intentions.

Her lips parted. “Oh.”

“Run, Omega.” I smiled slowly. “Run.”

She squealed.

She turned on her heel, hair flying, bare feet slapping the hardwood. That was the thing about what we had. We could bake cookies and lick frosting off knives one minute, and the next we’d be feeding the darkest, most depraved parts of each other.

She loved the monster in me as much as she loved the man.

I put on the mask and counted to ten.

Then gave chase.

I caught her at the windows in the living room.

She yipped as I grabbed her waist and pinned her against the glass, the summer sun sinking orange and purple behind her. She shoved at my chest and kicked, laughing and fighting like she meant it. I caught both wrists in one hand and held them there until she went still, breathing hard, a wicked glint in her big brown eyes.

I still couldn’t keep my hands off her. Some nights I woke just to touch her. Her hip. Her hair. The mark on her throat. Just to make sure she was real because I couldn’t be this fucking lucky.

“Done?” I asked.

“Never,” she panted as she ground against me.

Good.

I walked her to the sectional, slow, one step at a time, and sat down, pulling her onto my lap.

“Klaus,” she whispered.

“Hold still.”