Page 74 of Snag
I stifle a moan. But I don’t quite manage to stop myself from gripping Zaya’s hip and grinding up into her. Just a little.
Rought releases her. She’s panting lightly.
I manage to loosen my grip on her hip, but she doesn’t shift away from my cock.
“We’ll have to test that further,” Rought says with a grin.
“Which part?” Zaya teases back.
“All of it, from start to finish. Over and over again.”
She laughs huskily.
Grinning, Rought steps back and picks up the fallen journal. “What are you two doing up here?”
“Research,” Zaya says playfully.
Then she fucking wiggles in my lap.
And I’m definitely no longer just sporting a semi.
Rought chuckles, bending down a second time to retrieve a loose piece of paper that’s fallen from the journal and ended up half under the desk. He glances at it. The smile instantly falls from his face. He flips it over to read the other side.
It’s a photograph.
Zaya says, “I found that in —”
“Where the fuck did you get —” Rought overlaps her.
They both pause, Rought pale and frowning, Zaya stiff in my lap.
“What is it?” I growl.
Rought passes me the photograph, shaking his head. “What … that’s …”
I look at the photo. It’s Disa with three shifters. For a brief moment, I think one of those shifters is Reck. Which makes no fucking sense because the photo looks as if it was taken in the eighties.
“What the fuck?” I snarl, flipping it over and reading the inscription on the back.
Oso, Ward, Disa, and Ari. Summer 1989.
A visceral emotion more akin to fear than surpriseknifes through me. “Why do you have a photo of our fucking father …”
“And our uncle?” Rought adds.
“What?” Zaya reaches for the photo.
I hold it just out of reach, staring at it so hard, visually documenting every detail, that I’m pretty sure I’d set it on fire if I wielded that power in either of my forms.
“That’s the Outcast and the Cataclysm, Zaya,” Rought says, his tone way softer than mine. “With Disa. Ari and Oso.”
“And who the fuck is the third guy?” I ask, finally ceding the photo to Zaya.
Staring at it, she slides off my lap and takes a few steps away from me.
Even completely distracted, I mourn the newly imposed distance between us. And not just our physical proximity. We didn’t need another complication, and that photo —
“Ward,” Zaya says thoughtfully. “If he’s the only one of the three unaccounted for … then he’s the one whose ashes are interred in the Gage family mausoleum. Along with a sacrificial knife with blood somehow preserved on the blade.”
