Page 38 of A Malicious Menagerie
“Chase you, if you like,” he says with a low growl that makes a shiver coast down my spine and a warm ache pulse between my thighs. “But I mean it’s my name. Chase.”
“Chase,” I repeat, trying it out and thinking it suits him. Another rumble coasts from his chest at the sound of his name, more a purr than a snarl. My heart twists when I think that no one has likely used his name in a long time. And speaking of… “How long have you been here?” I ask, gentling my tone.
He shrugs, a small smile playing at his lips. “How ‘bout a date?”
My jaw drops. Did he just… ask me out? Now? Here? “How would that even work?” I blurt.
He blinks innocently. “How would what work?”
“Us. Going on a date, when you’re stuck in here?”
Now, he grins wolfishly. “Well, I was only asking whattoday’sdate is, but I accept. I’d ask your place or mine, but our options are limited.”
I’m caught somewhere between exasperated, flattered, embarrassed, and incredibly tempted. Before my good sense takes a back seat to my hormones, I snip, “Is this you avoiding the question?”
“How can I answer if you won’t tell me the date?” He cocks his head in that way that was so cute and curious when he was a wolf but is more flirtatious and devastatingly sexy when he looks like this.
I almost don’t want to tell him. If our positions were reversed, I’m not sure I’d want to know, and I don’t want to be the reason he loses his good humor. But he asked, and underneath the teasing, he looks starved for the information. So I rattle it off. “Fuck,” he snarls, his expression darkening abruptly. He rubs a hand over his face before pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut. “It’s been over a year and a half.”
My jaw drops. “A year and a half?!”
“Missed my little sister’s twenty-first birthday,” he grumbles quietly, almost to himself. “I’ll never hear the end of that… or likely the start of it, either.”
“You have a sister?” I ask, eager to hear more. Eager to heareverythingabout this fantastical man in this impossible place.
“Two, actually,” he says, a small smile fighting through his desolation. “Both younger. The younger one, Tori, is fourteen… or sixteen now, I guess.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-six… no, I’d be twenty-seven as of last week.”
A distressed squeak escapes me unbidden, and I unconsciously step closer, my hand coming up to grip one of the iron bars. “Your birthday was last week and I didn’t know?! I would have made a cake or… or a meat pie, or something…”
Suddenly, his warm hand engulfs mine, holding me to the bar, and I’m shocked into silence. His skin is tan, a shade darker than mine except where pale scars leave silvery tracks across the back of his hand and starbursts across his knuckles. His palm and fingertips are rough with calluses that catch and scrape against my skin. He has squared knuckles and long, bluntfingers, and he could easily fold my whole hand neatly into his palm.
This close to him, I can just catch his scent, pine trees and musk, similar to how he smelled as a wolf but with something more, something with spice. I take a couple of deep breaths, wanting to take that scent into me, to bring it home with me and let it warm my space like a lit candle.
“You looked beautiful in that dress.”
“Huh?” I reply dumbly, thrown off by the non-sequitur.
“That night,” he clarifies, his gaze intent and, dare I say,hot. “You looked beautiful in that dress. I mean, you always look beautiful, but seeing you like that was… different.”
“Thank you,” I reply, feeling both uncomfortable and elated. I’ve never been good at accepting compliments. “Though you didn’t seem to like the dress so much when Mathis’s skeevy guests were noticing it,” I point out, suppressing a shiver at the memory of his lupine form colliding with the iron bars and his silver fangs flashing.
He grins, but it’s more a baring of teeth than an expression of humor. “I’d like it a lot better if you wore it just for me on that date you promised me.”
Trying to channel some inner coquette that absolutely does not exist, I reply, “Maybe someday I will.”
Suddenly, his expression cools several degrees. He lets go of my hand to run his fingers through his hair again and tug at the shaggy ends. I cross my arms over my chest, surreptitiously flexing my fingers and missing his heat. “Unfortunately, I doubt it.”
Of course. Because he’s stuckhere,in his gilded prison. “Do you ever…” I trail off, becauseof coursehe thinks about getting out of here. Who wouldn’t?
“Every fucking day,” he replies vehemently, answering my unfinished question.
We’re silent for a long moment, both wrapped up in our own thoughts. But one question, the one I’ve wanted to ask the most, keeps building on my tongue until I can’t hold it in anymore.
“Why didn’t you tell me what you are?”
