Page 35 of Love the Way You Lion
This isn’t going to end well…
The Cat and the Bird Get Interrupted
DELILAH
The front door creaks open, and the sound of his boots on the hardwood echoes down the hallway like war drums. Measured. Heavy. Deliberate. The kind of gait that says he’s had a day—one of those endless ones that grind you down to the bone and still ask for more.
I look up from my perch on the edge of the bed, the covers half-pulled back, the room bathed in golden lamplight that flickers faintly like candlelight in a storm. He steps into the doorway like some weary titan returning from battle, clutching a bouquet of flowers so vibrant they look unreal, like something conjured by a magician. The scent hits me instantly—roses, freesia, something citrusy and sharp—and wraps around me, warm and dizzying.
In his other hand, he carries a bottle of aged scotch, the kind that costs more than my first car and smells like bonfires and bad decisions. I don’t even need to ask how his day went. It’s etched into the tight line of his jaw, the furrow of his brow, and the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth that he thinks I don’t notice. But there’ssomething else under all that—contentment, maybe. Or relief. Like he’s stepped across the threshold of safety. Like I’m the destination.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just sets the scotch gently on the nightstand and the flowers on the dresser like they’re offerings to some domestic goddess, and then turns to me. His eyes roam over me, cataloging everything—my expression, the slump of my shoulders, the tension I’m doing a piss-poor job of hiding.
He sighs, and that deep, rumbling voice that I swear lives somewhere in my spine says, “Oi, my minx. Did you have a good evening?”
It should be a simple question. Polite, even. But it slices through me like a dull knife. I swallow hard and shake my head, pressing the heel of my palm into one eye, like maybe I can erase the whole night with pressure. “No,” I say quietly. “But I don’t want to dwell on that stunted little beast and her nonsense right now. I’d much rather be here. With you.”
His eyebrows lift in surprise, just for a heartbeat. He’s so rarely caught off guard, it stuns me every time it happens. That flicker of unguarded emotion across his features—it’s like catching a glimpse of the stars through a stormcloud. Then he recovers, smoothing his expression like he’s pulling a curtain over a window.
I exhale, long and slow, my body still humming with residual irritation and acid reflux. “I had Italians tonight. Spices are still kicking around in my gut like they’re trying to throw a rave.”
He chuckles, but it’s laced with that knowing edge. “Italians? Again?” He crosses the room in a few strides and sinks down beside me, the bed creaking under his weight. His arms loop around my waist, anchoring me, and I melt into him instinctively. “I told you, pet. You’ve got to ease into international cuisine. Not everything agrees with you.”
“They must’ve been Sicilian,” I mutter into his chest, my voice muffled by the soft cotton of his shirt. “Angry ones. Spiteful little peppers with vendettas.”
His laughter rolls through his chest, a warm vibration against my cheek. “Christ, I missed you.”
I tip my head back and grin up at him, the tension starting to melt from my shoulders. “You did. And I was a bad girl who didn’t listen.”
“Mmm.” He smirks with that cocky curve of his lips that always gets me into trouble. “I like it when you admit it.”
I roll my eyes and nip playfully at his chin, catching the rough edge of his stubble between my teeth. He growls low in his throat, the sound curling around my spine like a caress. I feel his hand slide along my waist, fingers grazing the sliver of skin between my pajama top and the waistband of my shorts.
His eyes darken, heat flaring in them like banked embers suddenly fed oxygen. “You’ve got that look,” he murmurs. “Like you’re about to get yourself into mischief.”
I shiver, the anticipation crackling under my skin. “You think you can handle me tonight?” I challenge, my voice soft but dangerous, laced with the same teasing edge that always drives him wild.
He doesn’t answer with words. Just presses in closer, his body all heat and promise, his arousal a bold, insistent pressure against my lower back. His hand slides down my side, lingering at the curve of my hip before delivering a playful smack that makes me gasp.
“Oh, I can more than handle you,” he growls, voice dropping low and rough. “But maybe we take our time tonight. Get you out of those clothes slowly. Proper and all.”
The hunger between us is familiar and electric, a current that’s run between us since the moment we met. But tonight, there’s something else in the air. Something strange. A shift in pressure, like the static before a storm.
I lean into him, my breath hitching as he nuzzles the curve of my neck, his lips brushing over the pulse point there. “We’ve got all night,” I whisper.
But the second the words leave my lips, something slams into my mind like a battering ram.
A rush of sensation—cold, frantic, metallic—surges through me. Not emotion. Not thought. Presence. Something wild and desperate, clawing at the edge of my consciousness, demanding entry. A psychic knock that rattles the hinges of my mental doors.
I jerk back, gasping, the blood draining from my face. My hands brace against his chest, pushing him back. “We have to go.”
He stills. One heartbeat. Two. Then he curses, low and vicious. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” But he’s already moving, already on his feet. His expression hardens into something ruthless and focused, a general before a battle.
I’m still trying to catch my breath. Whatever just brushed up against my mind left behind icy fingers, wrapping around my ribs and squeezing. “It’s bad,” I whisper. “Worse than usual. It felt… torn. Ripped open. Like something bled through.”
He pulls open the wardrobe, grabs the go-bag without even needing to check its contents. We’ve done this before. Too many times. We live in this balance between tenderness and chaos, between stolen nights and inevitable calls to arms.
I yank on jeans over my pajama shorts, fingers trembling. My mind’s still reeling, echoes of that mental intrusion making mythoughts feel like a scrambled broadcast. “It wasn’t a cry for help,” I murmur. “It was a warning.”
