Page 42 of Craving Carla

“Yes,” she answers with a glare. “When we lost Verde and Petra, the children replayed their deaths for days, until they realized what it was doing to me, and then they stopped. I needed you to know what happened.”

I sigh and shake my head, then press my forehead to hers, wanting to take away her pain. I don’t like seeing her like this. She needs to stop trying to be strong all the time. Let someone else carry the weight for a change.

“Don’t do that again, Carla,” I say, my tone almost coming out like a threat. “I don’t care if the information will help me—if it hurts you, then open your mouth and tell me.” I pull back, gripping her cheeks harder, glaring into her beautiful green eyes. She needs a man who’s not afraid to stand up to her, to tell her when she’s being too stubborn for her own good.

She gasps, staring at me for a long moment, almost entranced, then nods.

“Okay,” she finally breathes out, and I smile at her.

I look to her children, and I grin when they send me images of their worry for Carla. Images of me taking care of her, putting her to bed, tucking her in, staying with her to make sure she falls asleep.

“I will,” I say to them with a nod. And with that, they quickly retreat, disappearing back into the trees, becoming almost invisible. I don’t know if they’re camouflaging themselves or simply vanishing, but it’s magnificent how they do it, especially considering their size.

“You will what?” Carla questions, brushing dirt from her knees.

I don’t answer, just smile at her. “Let me walk you back to the cabin, make sure you’re safely inside.”

She narrows her eyes but, instead of arguing or pushing for an answer, agrees. She starts walking ahead. I immediately catch up with my vampire speed, keeping my hand at the small of her back, surprised she’s not slapping me away.

She surprises me even more when she leans into me, resting her head against me. I move my arm and wrap it around her, pulling her closer, and her head shifts to rest against me.

“I’m sorry—when that happens, I get so exhausted,” she murmurs.

“Don’t apologize, Carla. I’m here to help. Use me for what you need.” She smirks against me at that, and I smile down at her.

“Do you think you can help us?” she asks as I help her step over a branch. We’re almost back to her cabin, and I don’t want to let her go.

“Yes,” I say, but what I’m not telling her is that I plan to drag it out.

The humans were somehow able to mask their scent, making themselves undetectable to the arachnids. I bet they were testing to see how well it worked, willing to put their lives on the line. And that sounds oddly familiar.

It sounds like Brookstone and Blackburn fucking Enterprises. And Ackley. I think we have a radical in our midst. I think we’re already being infiltrated. I need to get to Damon as soon as possible and go over my theories with him.

Carla can’t go on that date, but how can I tell her that? She needs to feel. I wish I had met her before he asked; she would have never accepted the date.

“Good,” she says, and when she pulls away from me, I have to stifle a groan. The warmth of her, her peachy smell—I want it to cling to me like a second skin.

We’re standing in front of her porch now, and she hands me back the handkerchief.

“Keep it. A souvenir,” I say. She rolls her eyes and lets her hand fall to her side.

“Thank you for everything, Amari. Your gifts, your willingness to help me and my children.”

“You mean our children,” I tease, and she slaps her hand against me. I laugh—I can’t help myself. She’s so beautiful when she’s angry with me. I catch her wrist, pulling her close. She gasps but doesn’t fight it.

I want to kiss her so bad right now, taste her lips, tangle my tongue with hers, get lost in the passion we’re both clearly fighting against.

“Goodnight, Amari,” she says, and I smile at her, unable to resist stroking her beautiful cheek. Then I lean down and press my lips against her cheek, feeling the softness of her skin. It’s beautiful, perfect, like my lips belong there. With a groan, I pull back, watching as she walks up the stairs, grabs the box with shoes from the swing and a bouquet of roses, then goes into her cabin and shuts the door.

I linger, because I’m not leaving until she’s sound asleep. I’ll clean up the porch, then watch her sleep until sunrise. That’s when I’ll leave her alone.

Carla.

My sweet, beautiful, peachy Carla.

The image of radicals attacking Carla and her children plays on a loop in my mind as I gather the roses and gifts from her porch. I’m careful to be quiet, arranging everything neatly against the wall. The scent of roses drifts around me, but all I can smell is Carla’s peach fragrance lingering where she stood.

My anger builds with each passing moment. Those humans knew exactly what they were doing. The memory showed precision, planning. They specifically targeted her children first, then tried to take her out. It wasn’t random—it was tactical.

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