Page 88 of Fated Exile

"A few of the old condos got torn down and rebuilt. Even with the curse, we've been growing—mostly our human population." I turn the corner slowly, my headlights catching a few jaywalking pedestrians. "I picked this place to live because the ceilings are high. It makes it easier to stretch canvases and paint."

"Paint?" She blinks at me, and I can practicallyfeelthe gears in her sharp mind turning. Not only because of her expression, but because the mating bond tells me so much now. "I had no idea you were a painter. Is that something you mentioned to me? Did I somehow forget?"

"It hasn't come up, but to be honest, I don't talk about it very often. I guess it's not something people expect out of me. Maybe because I'm a werewolf, or maybe because I'm a large, physically capable Black man."

Delilah considers me for a long moment, her keen eyes quiet and her lips pursed. "It fits you, though. You're so full of depth and layers." She smiles a little, light dancing in her eyes. "I'm trying to imagine now what kind of paintings you're making. Nude self-portraits, or impressionist daisies? Don't tell me—I want to be surprised."

I chuckle at her. "Something a little bit like that, maybe. You'll see soon enough."

The dark, glossy windows of my apartment building appear in front of us, and I slow down to turn into the garage, rolling down my window to swipe my key in the gates. We're quiet as I pull into my assigned spot, but I can feel her adjusting to this new piece of information from me, taking it in and viewing me in a more complete way. I slide out of the car and pace around to the other side to get her door, but she's already gotten out by the time I offer her my hand, though she takes it easily.

"I guess I don't think about your race very often," she confesses, color suffusing her cheeks as she says the words. "I mean, obviously I know you're Black, Finn is biracial, and Bastian is mixed. But you've never brought it up before, and you always seemed at ease in the pack."

"Finn is half sex idiot and half idiot idiot," I joke affectionately, "but he didn't grow up in a pack. Bastian didn't really either, though he did grow up among other wolves. The pack I was a part of, before I became a lone wolf and lost my family, was historically Black. Coming out here and adjusting to a pack that's mostly white, and a little diverse, was a big difference."

Delilah's colors heat slightly, and I can see her contemplative gaze as we step into the shiny, mirrored walls of the elevator. I want to say something soothing, to make her feel less self-conscious, but before I can she says, "My father always wanted the pack to be diverse. Not just in terms of humans and wolves, but racially, too. Maybe we can work on that mission even harder now. I don't want anyone to be left out the way I was."

Warmth suffuses me, and I can feel how much she means it. "Your bold thoughts and caring actions are one of the reasons why I love you so much, Delilah." I reach out to snag her hand, lacing our fingers together and tugging her towards me. "And it's why tonight, I intend to lay claim to you, and show you just how much I enjoy having you as my mate."

She swallows, tilting her chin up and squeaking out, "You love me?"

"I do." I stare down at her steadily, cupping my hand on her cheek and pressing my palm against her skin, which is pale beneath my touch. "I've known for a while, but I wanted to wait to tell you. I put it off, if I'm being honest. Then I wanted a moment alone, and those were so hard to find. Now... I'm tired of keeping my feelings to myself. I love you, Delilah, and I want to fight by your side and keep you safe forever."

"I think I feel that way too," she says, eyes slipping closed and hands hesitantly tugging on my dress shirt. "I'm not certain yet. Is that okay?"

"More than okay."

I kiss her then, sweeping her up in my arms and pressing my mouth against hers. She melts against me, all feminine curves over an athletic body that grabs onto me and holds tight. Her thighs crush against me, and I feel my arousal stir and grow, bold and thick now that we're alone.

For however long I have her to myself, I'm going to make her mine.

The elevator chimes, and the doors slide open, revealing the penthouse apartment. Taking her hand again, I tug Delilah through with me, keeping her at my side as I can stare down into her flushed face and enjoy the rapid rise and fall of her chest, which presses against the thin satin of her dress.

"Come," I tell her, "let me show you what I like to paint."

Thirty-Three

Delilah

Lance draws me by the hand into his apartment. The first thing that strikes me is how sleek and fashionable everything is. The living area is wide-open, with high ceilings, chrome and glass furniture, and a black leather sectional that sits low to the ground near a modern fireplace. There's no television hung on the living room wall, but there are paintings.

Magnificent, earth-shattering, larger-than-life paintings. A large abstract with bold primary colors hangs on the wall near the coat rack where I toe off my shoes. As I take a step down towards the kitchen area, I spot a blue and gold impressionist-style painting that is reminiscent of a spring field full of wildflowers, seen through fog.

Across the wall stretch a series of brutal, bold, and semi-abstract portraits made with large brushstrokes of brown and gold paint, lips and cheeks and eyes peering out of the chaos. I pause near those, feeling Lance's hand drop from mine as he steps up beside me to look at them as well.

"This was my family," he says, motioning to them. "I've painted my mother and sisters dozens of times, but I can't seem to bring myself to paint my father. Maybe it's because I feel like I don't deserve to have him here in my home, when I'm the reason why he's gone from this world."

I wordlessly reach out to grip his hand, enjoying the warm and steady feeling of him. "He wouldn't blame you for what happened."

"He would." Lance's lips quirk up, and he shakes his head mournfully. "He wasn't the type to spare the rod or mince words. My father expected excellence of me... and I was never able to deliver. But at least through my paintings, I've been able to find ways to express my grief."

"That's beautiful." I spot another painting, hung on a wall perpendicular to floor-to-ceiling windows, and am drawn to it. A pair of messily-rendered green eyes stare out at me, a brown mark in the iris of one of them. My breath goes quiet at the sight, and I don't need to ask, but I do. "Is this one of me?"

"It is." He steps in close and threads his arm around my waist, snagging me and drawing me close. "As soon as I met you, I was struck by your eyes. I knew I had to paint them. It must've taken me five or six tries to get anything decent out."

"I can't believe you knew that quickly." Turning to him, I look up into his eyes, enjoying the heat and hunger that roams his face. "I was so flustered when I first met you... I couldn't have imagined that you'd be attracted to an exile like me. But I nearly lost it the instant I saw you, how tall and handsome you are."

"I know." Lance chuckles, grabbing my hips and drawing me close until his arousal rubs against me through our clothes. "I could smell the arousal on you, and my wolf wanted you badly. It took all my strength and self-control not to mate with you the instant we met."

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