Page 63 of A Malicious Menagerie
“What? No!” I assure him, feeling guilty that I made him worry. “No, not at all. I’m just…” I shrug. “Not ready.”
To my embarrassment and horror, his nostrils flare as he takes in my scent. “You smell ready,” he growls, eyes hot as he takes an involuntary step toward me.
Ugh.Werewolf senses. I give him a gentle push backward with my fingertips on his chest, and he stands firm for a few seconds before relenting. I quickly duck to scoop up my pants and pull them on, wanting a barrier between my (admittedly very ready) lady bits and his stupid nose. “Fine, yes, my body says yes. It’s my brain that’s the problem.”
He looks even more lost now. “What’s wrong with your brain?”
I snort a self-deprecating laugh. “Do you want a list?”
He squints at me. “I feel like that was a trick question.”
Well, whether he wants a list or not, he’s going to get it. “It’s just, I can’t stop thinking that this went further than I’d planned, and that I’m on the clock right now, and that we don’t have a condom, and that you arewaybigger than my ex-boyfriend.” His abrupt laughter makes me cringe, but really, I kind of brought that on myself. Trying to pull back the reins on this runaway horse, I add, “Besides the fact that you are aprisonerand I’m your jailor.”
Chase is doubled over, one hand pressed to his ribs as if I’ve got him in stitches. “Kinky,” he chuckles. “Where are your handcuffs?”
“Can you please be serious?”
“I’m sorry,” he says as he catches his breath. “You’re right. I’m sorry. You’re just so fucking cute.”
“Nothing a girl likes more than being called ‘cute’ after getting naked with a guy,” I mumble sourly. Well, almost naked, but whatever.
Too fast for me to follow, Chase steps forward and cages me in again with his hands gripping the bars near my head and his body pressed close to mine. I gasp when I feel the hard evidence of his desire against my bare belly where my shirt hangs open, and my own body responds in a way I’m embarrassingly sure that Chase can smell. My hands fly up to press to his stomach, intending to push him away. Instead, I linger, reveling in the heat of his skin.
“Youarecute,” Chase rumbles against my ear. “But if you want proof that I think you’re more than cute, you’ve got it.”
“All I’m saying is that as long as you’re being held here against your will, I just… can’t. Sleep with you, that is. No matter how I feel about you.”
He’s quiet for a moment, his body still except for the steady rise and fall of his chest against me and the gust of his warm breath against my neck. Finally, he asks, “And how do you feel about me?”
Shoring up my courage, I admit, “I like you. A lot.”
“How much?”
“Enough to upend my entire life to break you out, obviously,” I huff, finally pushing him away. Rather than looking annoyed, he’sgrinning.
“I ‘like’ you, too,” Chase replies easily, and I can tell by the emphasis he puts on my word that he thinks I’m being cute again. I’m debating telling him off when he adds, “Enough to upendmyentire life by inviting you home with me.”
Well, he’s got me there.
“So… where does that leave us?” I ask.
“Same place we were before: counting down the days until we get out of here.” He grins, fangs fully on display. “But with added incentive.”
28
The Attack
The night of my second Mathis gala brings about a rush of déjà vu as a black garment bag and set of pristine white boxes arrive in the arms of a blank-faced courier. I thank him grimly before carting my burden inside and hanging the bag on the back of my closet door. With the amount of dread I’ve accumulated in my chest, you’d think I was identifying a body in a morgue rather than revealing a dazzling ball gown, but I have to steel myself for several minutes before gingerly drawing down the zipper.
Inside, the dress is a floor-length confection of champagne chiffon and glittering crystals that make my eyes swim. I have no doubt that the crystals are less Bedazzler rhinestone and more Swarovski crystal, and the idea of losing even one of the precious stones makes my stomach flip.
As I curl my honey-blond hair and apply makeup, I can’t help but feel as if I’m applying war paint, and I give my reflection a bleak, tight-lipped grimace after slicking on berry-red lipstick.
Nathan is prompt picking me up, and I shrug on the fur shawl I found tucked in a box beside a crystal-encrusted clutch bag. The mink is impossibly soft to the touch, but the mix of white, burgundy, and graphite strands reminds me a little too much of Rory’s ruff. I swallow back a surge of bile at the thought.
When I emerge from my house, Nathan is standing by the back of the Cadillac, his tropical-sea eyes locked on me. When he sees the shawl instead of my denim jacket, he nods in approval. “Much better.”
“Respectfully, Nathan, fuck off,” I grumble as I approach him, nerves making me testy.
