Page 64 of His Curse

Which isn’t a terrible way to go, I guess, because if I can’t have my mate, why would I want to be living at all?

Chapter11

If the Kitchen is Too Hot…

COLT

"Do you have a pen?"

I lift my head, turn from the potatoes I'm frying, and nod toward the nightstand. "In the drawer. Should be some paper, too.”

Lark reaches over and retrieves both, and gets to her feet—her feet that are swimming in a pair of my socks because they started to get sore and needed to be protected—then begins walking along the wall while she silently scribbles away on the legal pad.

And I have to stop myself from staring at her—like I have the entire time we’ve been here.

We've been at my house for about two hours now and have still managed to say the bare minimum to each other.

I asked if she was hungry, she said yes.

I asked if she liked the things I bought for breakfast, Lark said yes and told me she's eaten nothing but oatmeal for forty-five years, so anything was better than that even if she didn't like what I made.

I fixed her a cup of coffee—sugar only and just a little of it—she thanked me and sipped it in silence.

We continued like that until I pulled down my grandmother’s blanket, and that's when things got even quieter. Something I didn’t think was possible, but it got so quiet you could hear a goddamn mouse fart two towns over, and it’s been incredibly difficult not to fill the void with complete and utter bullshit.

Especially when I’ve had so many questions for her, and the ridiculous urge to both kick her out and spill my guts over how I feel. But neither of those are an option for about a million reasons, and the fact that my mate is even more stoic than I am right now has me on edge.

Lark had been sitting on the edge of my bed—something my wolf and I both found great satisfaction in—staring at the wall of photos and maps, dates and notes for the last fifty-six minutes without uttering a word and if she continued, I might have literally exploded.

Thank the gods she got up.

At first, I thought it was because she was upset, that maybe seeing all of my research was too much for her to deal with so soon after escaping, but the longer she sat, the more I realized Lark wasn't upset, not exactly.

No, my mate was downrightpissed.

Not at me, thank gods, but she was definitely mad, and the longer she stared, the more intense that feeling became.

Then, about twenty minutes ago, that anger gave way to a heavy sadness before it morphed into a resolved determination that made me stop flipping French toast and check on her once I felt it roll down our bond.

And what I saw? The hard look of concentration, the way I could see her mourning while also planning, taking in each bit of information I have pinned to the cork board with a ferocious expression and tunnel vision focus. I won't lie, that shit made my cock harder than stone while my love for her went all volcanic in my chest. And it might have scared me a little bit, too, because there is no doubt this female is a force to be reckoned with.

"You don't mind if I add to this, do you?"

"No..." I move to my small kitchen table and set the pan on a hot pad then watch as Lark picks up a thumbtack, tears a strip off the pad, and sticks it over the first photo.

She repeats the action sixty-one times, only stopping to write more before continuing, and by the time I plate our food and join her in front of whatever she just did, Lark returns the pen and paper to my drawer and takes a step back to look at her work.

Holy shit.

Holyfuckingshit.

"You knewallof them?" My mind is officially blown as I hand her a plate, scanning the wall and the little strips of paper with her immaculate hand.

Lark nods as she pops a raspberry into her mouth. "This is only a fraction of the others that have been in the lab, though."

Which makes total sense. "Most shifters or other creatures of mysticism aren't going to report a loved one missing to the local police."

"Right." She eats another berry then chases it with an entire strip of bacon. "A lot of the people I met were still hiding, running from whatever bad situation they left. Civil wars, population drop off, being forced to leave their homes. These people”—Lark motions to the wall—“were living very normal lives. They were pillars of their communities, had families, and they blended in with everyone else."

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