Page 25 of Craving Carla

“You can do that?” Carla asks, eyes widening slightly. “Detect radical scents through technology?”

I grin at her, genuinely impressed that she holds so much interest whenever I speak. Most women want me to empty my pockets or fuck them good. They never really care about what I think or what comes out of my mouth. But Carla always seems to engage with my ideas. My words often annoy her, but it’s the interest that appeals to me.

“We’re still bug testing the latest version,” I admit, “but so far it’s showing promise. Like any piece of code, there will always be vulnerabilities—places where someone determined enough could find a way through. Just as the code improves, there’s always a hacker ready to crack it. It’s a constant game of cat-and-mouse.”

I pace along the border, gesturing as I explain. “The current prototype can detect radical markers with about 97% accuracy. We’ve been focused on improving the false positive rate—making sure innocent humans don’t get wrongly identified as threats.”

I turn back to Carla. “But the most promising aspect is the integration with supernatural abilities. We’re developing modules that can be enhanced by witch magic, strengthened byshifter energy, or powered by vampire blood. It creates a hybrid system that’s more effective than either technology or magic alone.”

I start walking closer to the bridge and Carla follows, keeping her eyes on me. She walks alongside me, her body too close to the border, to the waters. Without thinking, I gently grab her arm and pull her around so that I’m the one by the water’s edge and she’s on the side of the land where there’s more protection.

Her skin is warm under my touch, soft despite the strength I sense beneath. For a brief moment, I feel the subtle power pulsing through her—ancient, potent, untamed. I release her arm quickly before she gets the urge to snatch it away, but the sensation lingers on my fingertips.

She blinks, looking down at her arm where I touched her, then up at me, then to our new positions. Her brow furrows slightly, confusion giving way to comprehension as she realizes I’ve placed my body between her and the potential danger. For a split second, her lips part as if to say something, but then she presses them together again, a slight flush rising to her cheeks.

The scent of peaches intensifies, mixed now with something warmer, deeper—like honey and cinnamon. Her posture shifts almost imperceptibly, shoulders relaxing by a fraction of an inch, hands unclenching at her sides. She tries to hide it, but I can tell—no one has shielded her like this before. No one has considered her safety worth protecting.

It takes her a moment to school her features back into their usual guarded expression, but I’ve already caught it—that flash of surprise, of appreciation, quickly covered by her stubborn pride. I can smell the gratitude in her sweet scent, but she’s too stubborn to give me the satisfaction of expressing it.

Damn, I really like this woman. She certainly knows how to make a man work. When I do get access to that juicy ass of hers—and I will—it will certainly be well earned.

“I’ve been hacking my own code,” I tell her, looking back toward the border. “Testing for holes, cracks that would make it easy for human radicals to get through undetected. So far, we’ve managed to patch most of the vulnerabilities, but there’s always room for improvement.”

“Humans have been using fated scent to get access to Wintermoon,” Carla explains, her eyes scanning the horizon. “But they haven’t used that method since King Amir awakened.”

“That’s because King Amir knows who’s fated, even if the scent is masked. His senses go beyond our comprehension.”

Carla falls silent at my words as if some type of realization hit her. Hmph, I wonder what that could be. I want to read this woman’s mind, find out what gets her wheels turning. She’s hiding something from me; I can detect it in her scent. But it’s not out of malice. That much I know. What is she afraid of telling me? Does she think her confession will make me fear her and be repulsed by her the way the others do?

I’ve handled far worse, but I stiffen, my own fear creeping in when I feel him.

My little friend.

The familiar sensation washes over me—that subtle pressure against the back of my mind, the warmth that spreads across my shoulders like eight delicate points of contact. He’s here, right behind me, hidden from view but radiating his presence to me in a way only I can feel. A connection built over centuries, unbreakable and profound.

Immediately, images flood my mind, pushed into my consciousness with an urgency I’ve rarely felt from him. Carla. He’s showing me Carla, but not as she is now—as she was, perhaps centuries ago. In the visions, she’s cradling a cluster of spiderlings in her palms, her face soft with maternal affection. Another flash: Carla whispering to a massive arachnid perched on her shoulder, stroking its bristly back with gentle fingers.Then another: Carla surrounded by spiders of various sizes, all of them positioned protectively around her, like a living shield.

The images shift, becoming more intimate. Carla holding my little friend, specifically, his distinctive markings unmistakable. She’s cuddling him close, the way a mother would hold an infant, her green eyes warm with love. She’s speaking to him, though I can’t hear the words, her lips forming what looks like endearments, promises of protection.

Then the images change again, to the fragments he’s shown me countless times before—the little girl’s feet, small and delicate, visible from below as a newly hatched spiderling peers up at his mother. The same feet he always associates with his birth, with his origin.

But now those feet have Carla’s skin tone, her shape. The connection is unmistakable.

My little friend thinks Carla is his mother? I chuckle at the absurdity, but the images keep coming, more insistent now. Memories, perhaps, or something deeper—a recognition that transcends conscious thought.

I want to kick him and tell him to scram because he will certainly frighten Carla. Women are always terrified of him, especially his size. I’ve had women fall into full-on seizures in my bed after catching sight of him, their screams through my penthouse as they scrambled to escape his massive form. The last woman tried to throw a lamp at him just for existing.

What does it matter? I’m not fated to her anyway. She doesn’t even have the fated scent, which is insanely abnormal. This has to be written somewhere in Damon’s library, which I plan on exploring after we finish here. Something in me wants to help her. There has to be a way to help her find a companion. Being destined to spend an eternity alone—that’s fucking unfair. Not even King Amir was given such a punishment. So why her?Even Aya Bailey had a fated mate; she simply fell into dark magic and killed him.

When Carla’s eyes drift to my shoes, where my little friend is hiding behind me, I freeze. For his size, he seems to do well hiding in the most unusual places. I feel him press closer to my leg, his massive form somehow compacting itself, those eight legs drawing in tight against his body. It’s part of his power. He can’t be detected unless he wants you to know he’s there. But the way Carla’s looking at my feet, I think she knows he’s there.

Her gaze lingers too long, too knowingly on that spot. There’s no fear in her eyes, no disgust—only a strange, calculating intensity, as if she’s trying to see through the invisibility that shields him.

I groan and start adjusting the cufflinks on my suit.

Looks like I’m going to have to once again defend my little friend.

9

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