Page 44 of Tail, Dark and Handsome: Celestial Mates
Mari knew Winter was dangerous, but not in the way Valerian thought. He was a danger to her better judgment and her heart.
Chapter 8
Less than stellar. Critics pan Rebel’s sophomore effort.
-Interstellar Music News
Winter
Lights flickered overhead, humming to life and casting a pallor over the room. Deep shadows created unnavigable pools in the corners. He understood what it was to have memories weigh down a home, smother the life from it until everyone who lived there turned into ghosts.
This place was haunted. He understood why Marigold needed to leave it behind for a new beginning elsewhere. Had he not run away from his own haunted home to wander the stars with his kit?
“Thanks for walking me, but you don’t have to stay,” Marigold said, slinging down a bag in an empty chair.
“I will stay,” he said, crossing the threshold. Docked at Olympus Station, he had time while the ship underwent maintenance. As the work would take a full day, he rented a hotel room. Without thinking, he also rented a room for Marigold until she said that she planned to stay in her apartment. Zero immediately took off for the station’s bookshop and no doubt would arrive at the hotel with a stack of new books.
His offer to walk Marigold to her domicile had been more than good manners. He was curious about her home, about her.
“Okay. Would you like, um, tea or coffee?” she asked. “All I have is powdered milk for creamer. I emptied all the perishables from the cooling unit before my trip, but take a look. Help yourself.”
“You said you needed to pack clothes. I can assist,” he said. What was he doing?
He sniffed the air, catching the bright floral scent of her soap and that lotion she slathered on her skin.
There. Two males.He growled possessively. Two males? Who dared to enter his mate’s domicile?
Stop. Stop this.She wasn’t his mate.
“That’s kind, but I need to do more than pack a suitcase. My charming ex-fiancé didn’t pay rent for months and I have to be out by the end of the month.” She filled an electric kettle with water. While it boiled, she pulled down two mugs from a shelf and a box of tea. The packaging featured rainbows, oddly shaped lumps that he reasoned were fruit, and inaccurate representations of stars.
He had no idea what flavor the tea could be, but he knew he would hate it. “That is a kit’s tea,” he said.
“You don’t like Starlight Rainbow Raspberry? No, that’s impossible. It’s too good not to like,” she said, content to ignore his concerns.
He scanned the domicile. It was long and narrow. A long credenza built-in with shelves and drawers ran the length of the cabin. There was space for a chair and a work surface. Practical but appealing. On the opposite wall was a pale gray sofa in a plaid print that suggested the colors lacked harmony and a matching chair, arranged on a swirling pale and darker gray rug. He found it difficult to believe that someone paid good credit for that eyesore and arranged it exactly so with pillows and soft lap blankets. A wilted plant sat on a table near a lamp.
The entire space was lushly decorated with that same level of taste. It coordinated in a riot of color and texture. As much as it did not appeal to him, someone took pride in crafting the environment.
A closed door waited at the far end of the domicile, which had to be the sleeping chamber.
He fought the urge to investigate that room. Instead, he breathed deeply, taking in the scent of the rooms. He detected dust, cleaning agents, the staleness of an aging filtration system, but no other male. At least not in the common area. Perhaps in the sleeping chamber, in the bed they shared…
Flexing his hand, he ignored the burn of his claws. It did not matter if the scent of Marigold’s false mate still clung to their bed. She was not his. He made an offer, and she declined. Who her bed smelled of was not his concern.
He needed to deviate his thoughts from this topic.
“You have too many possessions to pack in a single day, and my ship cannot accommodate your furnishing,” he said. There. That was an adequate change in conversational direction.
“You mean you’re not going to help me move my sofa?” She poured boiling water over the tea bags. A mildly pleasant fruity aroma filled the air. He decided that he would try the ridiculous raspberry—whatever those were—tea, but he would not enjoy it. She added a spoonful of the powdered milk and sugar, then handed him a mug.
Cautiously, he sipped. “It is not unpleasant.”
“A rousing review,” she said, a smile on her face.
“You are always doing that,” he said.
“Doing what?”
