Page 64 of Craving Carla

I let Kenzo go, and he crawls into the trees to be with the others while I relax and stare at the sky.

I lay back on the woven bed, trying to find comfort in its gentle sway. I think about Amari, how he drove me insane when we first met. He was such an asshole, yet he kept doing the sweetest things for me. And when he rescued me, cared for me, made passionate love to me... it felt so real. So damn real.

It would have been easier if he made me hate him. Why did he have to make me fall in love? It hurts so badly, like a deep, unfamiliar ache I can’t shake. I know I’ll never be able to bear seeing him with another woman—his true fated mate.

I roll to my side and curl into a fetal position, sobbing quietly. The silk cradles me, wrapping around my body like a cocoon of safety.

I stay that way for hours, until the sun starts to set and the night noises of owls, crickets, and other creatures come alive. I need to get down, I need to eat, but can I? My stomach feels turned upside down.

“I thought I’d find you here, baby.”

My eyes shoot open, and I sit up, looking around, wondering if I’m dreaming.

“Down here, baby.”

I look over my web-spun bed and down at the forest floor. My eyes narrow when I see Amari standing there in a fresh suit with his expensive Italian leather shoes. He’s holding a bouquet of bright red roses that are impossible to miss, even from this distance. His face is illuminated in a way that highlights the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the perfect curve of his lips. It’s not fair that someone can be so beautiful and such an asshole at the same time.

I lay back on the web and stare at the darkening sky. “What do you want? Why did you bother coming back?”

“What do you mean?” His voice carries upward, confusion evident in his tone. “Are you not happy that I’ve returned?”

“You left me to wake up alone and clean myself up,” I say, not looking at him, my voice cracking despite my efforts to sound strong. “I got the hint that you got what you wanted and were finished with me loud and clear.”

He goes quiet for a moment, and I think maybe he’s left. But then I hear him sigh, a deep sound filled with something like regret.

“My ridiculous sweetheart,” he says, his voice impossibly tender. “You are mistaken. I left only to handle something urgent. Come down here, I need to speak with you about something. It is important.”

“Go straight to hell,” I snap, sitting up just enough to glare down at him.

He laughs, a sound so rich and warm it stirs something deep within me. “I’ve been there many times—the hell you speak of,” he calls up. “But now I’m in heaven with you, and that’s where I plan on staying.”

He sets the roses down carefully and spreads his arms wide. “Come to me, my queen of shadows, my mistress of silk and secrets.”

I sit up fully now, looking down at him in disbelief. “What are you doing?”

“The moment I saw you,” he begins, his voice taking on a rhythmic cadence, “I knew you were different from any woman I’d encountered in a thousand years. Let me tell you what I see when I look at you, Carla.”

He takes a step back, his eyes never leaving mine, and begins to recite:

“Queen of eight-legged sentinels, emerald-eyed enchantress, your web of magic has captured what centuries could not tame. Not with beauty alone, though the stars envy your freckled face, but with courage that stands when shadows would swallow your name.

Your children dance upon moonlight, guardians of twilight realms, while you, their mother, command respect with gentle hands. A thousand years I’ve wandered, empty, searching, blind, until I found my home in your impossible, magnificent stand.

Spider Queen of Wintermoon, feared by those who cannot see, the strength in your vulnerability, the power in your care. They call you monster, but I see the goddess they’re too blind to witness, the most magnificent woman in this world—beyond compare.”

I stare down at him, momentarily stunned into silence. No one has ever spoken to me this way, with such reverence, such genuine admiration. For a second, I almost believe him.

“Ameerati al-helwa al-thameena,” he says, his voice softening, breaking the spell.

I sit up straighter, swallowing the lump in my throat. “What the hell does that even mean?”

He smiles up at me, and I hate how beautiful he is, even from this distance, the way his golden eyes glow as he looks up at me.

“It’s my native tongue,” he explains. “I called you my sweet, precious princess.”

“Your poetry doesn’t change anything,” I tell him, though my resolve is weakening. “You took what you wanted and left.”

“While it’s my intention to give you the world and your heart’s desire,” he says, “leaving you is the one thing I cannot and will not give you.”

---