Page 35 of Sold Bullied Mate

It had seemed so obvious last night that it was what we both wanted—and he said it had nothing to do with the heat, that hewantedme, that he had always wanted me—but couldn’t that have just been the circumstances talking?

I sit up in his bed and drop my head into my hands, taking deep, shuddering breaths. The only thing worse than never having Dorian would be to have him and lose him. For him to realize it was a mistake.

Or worse, for him to say that it was only sex for him, and nothing more.

My chest pangs with something like preemptive loneliness and I swallow through it, forcing myself to look up and take in the room.

Everything happened so quickly last night that I didn’t have a chance to properly see his room, and I do it now, letting my eyes adjust to the light, drinking everything in so I don’t have to deal with the reality that I’ve just woken up alone.

The bed I’m sitting in is at least a king, if not California king. It’s dressed with blankets and a duvet, all deep blue tones and gray tartan. Last night was the best night of sleep I’ve gotten since being here, which might have something to do with the way I sink right into the mattress, the material so soft and welcoming.

At the end of the bed is a small leather settee, and there are two dark oak tables on either side.

Directly opposite the bed is a large dresser, a painting hanging above it, and I realize with a start that the painting is of this town—the mesas rising up in formation, the rich reds and golden oranges, the way the blue and pink clouds contrast with the landscape.

Breathtaking.

The first time since being home that I’ve really remembered the beauty of this land.

And yet, even staring at the painting isn’t enough to calm the stirring in my chest, the deep sense of uneasiness that’s hovering around the edges. I think back to that day I spent talking with Beth, and how she’d talked about the warning signs of when the gift might show up.

Eventually, after enough time, I’ll be able to use it at will, search for information. But younger psychics usually just get visions or premonitions when they come to them, a circumstance of random chance that’s not usually very helpful.

And I’m noticing some of the warning signs now. A slight blurring of my vision around the edges. The very faint sense that I’m floating above myself. Until Beth put them into words, I had never been able to identify them.

I lie back against the pillows and hold my breath, preparing myself for the onslaught of a premonition, but then something breaks me out of it, so loud and jarring that I jolt up again, breath caught in my throat, trying to figure out what it is.

Some sort of alarm.

Thefirealarm.

I might be feeling sorry for myself, but that doesn’t mean I want to burn to death in this house, alone. My survival instincts take over and I leap up, grabbing a random shirt from the floor and pulling it over my head.

When I dart out into the hallway, I can see the black smoke hovering on the landing below the stairs, and a burst of adrenaline rolls through me. I can’t believe this is actually happening—Dorian’s house is on fire.

I take the steps down as quickly as I can, pulling my shirt up over my nose, but then I hear something strange and look to my left, into the kitchen.

And there’s Dorian, with the screen door open, coughing and plugging in a fan to blow the smoke out. There he is, looking up at me, his eyes brightening as he does.

He glances quickly to the pan on the stove.

“Sorry,” he says, wincing charmingly. “Thought I could make you breakfast. Maybe I should leave the cooking to you, huh?”

And all at once, I feel like a complete idiot. Why, when I first realized he wasn’t in the bed with me, did I assume that meant he wanted nothing to do with me? I could have gotten out of bed and come down here, realized he was still here.

Trying to make me breakfast.

“What did youdo?” I laugh, stepping into the kitchen, the tile cool beneath my bare feet. In the pan on the stovetop is something charred and unrecognizable.

“I followed the recipe,” he says, gesturing to his phone on the counter. “But I must have had the heat up too high.”

I laugh and pick the offender up out of the pan with the spatula, listening to the dullclunkas it drops down into the metal again. When I glance to the side, I see the recipe he has pulled up is for French toast.

“Ohmy,” I laugh again, but when I turn around to make a joke about it, his eyes are on me intensely, and his pupils have gone big again. Swallowing, I take a step back, looking him up and down. “What?”

“You’re wearing my shirt,” he says, voice low. Then, a grin spreading over his face, he cocks his head at me. “Are you trying to tell me something, Kira?”

My stomach does a full somersault.

---