Page 49 of Pleasured By the Panther
“Gorgeous,” he thought into her mind, and the image of herself reflected in the mirror, with him—all black fur and fierce green eyes—behind her made her pulse stutter.
She caught a glimpse of herself in his mental vision and saw, briefly, that she had changed again—her hair was an even richer auburn and the lines at her eyes and now mouth seemed to be completely erased.
“Did…did I change again?” she asked, turning back to the mirror.
But before she could really study herself, there was another knock on her bedroom door. This time, it was one of the bridesmaids, sounding breathless.
“Mrs. Slocum, are you okay? Hanna’s getting worried about you!”
“I’ll be right down!” Miranda called, her fingers smoothing the gown’s soft waist nervously. She glanced at Korrath.
“Five minutes,” she sent through their link. “Then come down. Sneak around the back—don’t interrupt anything.”
His thought replied, wry and tender.
“I will be careful. I will wait. I will come for you when you are ready.”
She smoothed the turquoise spider silk gown with trembling hands, took a deep breath, and forced her legs to move under her. Somehow, she felt steadier—replenished and raw all at once after the quick Bonding session.
As she stepped toward the door, she cast a last, fleeting look at the bed where the green coverlet still bore the faint evidence of their Bonding Sex. She hoped she did not look like a woman who had just been Claimed by a Monstrum—panting and marked…and possibly carrying a secret in her belly.
But the dress fit like a dream, and even if anyone guessed what she’d been doing with Korrath, the warmth in her chest told her that she didn’t regret any of it.
She opened the door and walked out, heart hammering, into the ordinary noise of her family’s celebration—into laughter and clinking glasses and the dizzying world of being a mother at her daughter’s wedding.
Everything was going to be fine—she was sure of it.
38
MIRANDA
The backyard looked lovely, just as she and Hanna had planned. Round tables draped in white linen filled the lawn, each set with little bouquets of flowers and the painstaking favors she and her daughter had spent hours making. Lanterns swayed gently in the trees, and fairy lights twinkled over the small dance floor in the center. The scent of cut grass mingled with lemon from the caterer’s pitchers of water, and the sound of laughter floated on the warm evening air.
Miranda slipped into her chair just in time to watch Hanna and her new husband cut the cake at the head table. They looked radiant—just the two of them, their bridesmaids, and the groomsmen sharing the spotlight. Miranda’s own seat, however, was at a round table for six. Unfortunately, it was the same one Martin and Jolene had claimed.
Martin kept giving her sideways looks as though he didn’t quite believe what he was seeing, while Jolene—very pregnant and flushed—looked about ready to pop. Her makeup was running, and she dabbed at her face with a crumpled napkin. Still, when the server brought slices of cake around, she couldn’t resist a dig.
“Oh no, serve her first,” she said, nodding at Miranda with a little smirk. “After all, age before beauty.”
Miranda lifted her chin and ignored her. She had no interest in sparring with Martin’s new wife, not tonight.
At least she wasn’t alone with her ex and his wife. Aunt Marge was at the table too. Great-aunt Marge was ninety-one and half-deaf. She was always convinced she was whispering when she was really bellowing.
Now the old lady leaned toward Miranda and asked—loud enough for the entire table and the one beside it to hear?—
“Is that the little whore Martin left you for?” She nodded toward Jolene.
Miranda nearly dropped her fork.
“Aunt Marge! Shhhh!” she hissed, but it was no use.
Jolene’s eyes went wide with outrage as Aunt Marge plowed ahead, her voice booming.
“Look at how pregnant she is—you know she was spreading her legs for him a long time before he left you! What a little slut!”
“Shhhh! Aunt Marge, please!” Miranda begged, horrified. “You can’t say things like that!”
“Never mind, honey,” Aunt Marge went on, loudly. “You look a thousand percent happier since you got rid of that dead weight! I never liked him—such a scrawny little man. And so full of himself!”
