Page 85 of Bitten, Marked, Obsessed

“You got any tea that doesn’t taste like mulch?”

“Beggars, princess.” I toss a tin of Earl Grey at her. She catches it one-handed, that hunter’s reflex of hers never dormant.

The couch creaks when I sink into the far end, putting a solid foot of dead space between us. She arches a brow but says nothing, just shakes tea leaves into a chipped mug. The silence isn’t quiet—it’s a live wire, sparking with every glance she steals my way while she boils water.

“Adora’s not the only one who’s twitchy.” She blows steam off her tea, eyes narrowing over the rim. “You’ve been side-eyeing me since we left.”

I don't say anything. I don't know what to say at the moment so I keep my eyes on the fire.

She sets her mug down as it clinks onto the side table. “You’re avoiding theactualreason you’re tense.”

The fire pops, embers spiraling up the chimney. Her knee brushes mine when she shifts to move closer, and my pulse does this stupid skippy thing, like a deer on ice.

“Last time we were here…” Her voice dips, rougher than the wool blanket draped between us. “…you’re scared I’ll bolt again.”

I stare at the flames. “You did.”

“I panicked.”

“And I told you I wouldn't push you.”

“I didn’t know what the bondmeant!” Her palm slaps the couch cushion. The spring twangs. “One minute I'm running for safety from my uncontrollable shift, the next I’m climbing you like?—”

“Like a goddamn sequoia.”

Her laugh’s abrupt, startled. “You’re such an ass.”

“And you’re still here.”

The admission hangs there, raw. She leans into it, her shoulder pressing mine. “I’m not running, Callum.”

“Prove it.”

Her fingers find my jaw, calloused and warm, tilting my face toward hers. “I’m not a porcelain doll. You don’t have to tiptoe.”

Her thumb traces my lower lip, and every muscle locks. Fuck, I want tocrushher into the cushions, but…

“Kendall—”

“Shut up.” Her breath ghosts over my mouth, cinnamon and defiance. “This isn’t panic. It’s not the bond. It’sme.”

The kiss is a question. Soft and testing.

Her lips part under mine, the taste of Earl Grey and defiance dissolving into something sweeter. My hand slides into her hair, silver strands catching between my knuckles like moonlight made tangible. She makes this noise—half growl, half whimper—that ignites every nerve ending.

“Bedroom,” I rasp against her mouth, not a question.

Her teeth graze my bottom lip. “Thought you’d never ask.”

We don’t trip over boots this time. Don’t crash into walls. Each button of her flannel pops free under my fingers, deliberate as a countdown. She shrugs it off, and the firelight paints her bare shoulders in molten gold. My breath hitches.

“See something you like?” Her smirk’s shaky, but her hands don’t tremble when they yank my Henley over my head.

“Shut up.” I lift her, her legs locking around my hips as I carry her toward the creaking bed. She nips my earlobe, all teeth, and I nearly drop her. “Christ, Kendall?—”

“Too slow, Wulfson.” She rolls us sideways, straddling me, her palms flat on my chest. Her thumbs brush my nipples, and I hiss. “Payback’s a bitch.”

I flip her before she can gloat, pinning her wrists above her head. Her pulse thunders against my palm. “Keep squirming. See what happens.”

---