Page 62 of Wrongfully Magicked
As soon as we pass, insanity floods back into the wolf’s eyes, and he’s once more pacing his cell in agitation. I continue to follow the girl, not letting my guard down for a second, the need to protect her riding me hard. My claws flex as we trail after theinsect, and I barely resist the impulse to crush the bug. The only thing stopping me is the girl standing between us.
My obsession with the girl increases the longer I’m with her. She smells of sugar and spice, making me want to pull her close and run my tongue along her neck. I breathe lightly, but it only makes my mouth water and leaves me craving more. I’m not even aware that I’m closing the distance between us until she glances at me suspiciously over her shoulder.
I quickly duck my head, terrified of her seeing my monstrous face. I want her to see that I’m not a threat to her—otherwise, she will leave me as soon as we escape. The thought of her being afraid of me has my ears going back and my fur standing on end.
Mine!
The impulse to toss her over my shoulder and drag her somewhere safe is almost impossible to resist, but starvation over the last couple of months has left me weak. It galls me that I can’t protect her properly, and I lower my head in shame, knowing that I’m not worthy of guarding her back. Maybe if I can prove myself to her, she’ll see that she didn’t make a mistake in saving me.
All my senses are on high alert, my muscles ready to spring into action, but again and again, my attention wanders back to the girl.
My mate.
I finally recognize the obsessive-compulsive symptoms, and I can only marvel at the knowledge, staring after her in complete awe. It’s been so long that I gave up hope of ever finding her. The more time that passed without my mate, the more my beast took over, until I couldn’t even remember the last time I was able to take my human form.
I didn’t miss it until now.
Worry gnaws at my insides like baby wolverines that once she gets a good look at my beastling form, she might run awayscreaming. My beast is a little too big and a little too rough to be around someone as small and delicate as her. Her human form is so easily hurt that I shudder at the thought that even the lightest touch might accidentally crush her.
I try to shake off my rambling thoughts and focus on getting us out of here alive, but I can’t look away from the tiny beauty. It’s extremely rare for felines to mate. Most of our species are literal tomcats. When our kind finds our mates, we become completely obsessed with everything about them.
Our main focus switches to their happiness and safety, and we’ll do anything to protect them.
They become our entire world.
My baser instincts demand I claim her here and now, sink my fangs into her shoulder so my mark is visible and everyone would know that she is mine.
Despite knowing this is the worst possible time to push the issue, my beast is clawing at my insides with the desperate need to know anything about my mate. Something as simple as just knowing her name would be enough to appease my beast for now.
I drum my claws against my leg, battling my nerves to speak to her, almost afraid to ask my question and draw attention to myself. I used to be a beautiful creature, but years of abuse have taken its toll. My whiskers are stunted, my fur matted, my body weak after months of starvation. I have nothing to offer her but my life.
What if that isn’t enough?
My beast won’t take kindly to her rejection.
Oh, he wouldn’t hurt her—he would die before ever lifting a finger against her—but rejection would drive my beast crazy. Logic would become fuzzy, turning my beast into a bit of a Neanderthal.
The longer we go without claiming our mates, the more obsessed we become with them.
My symptoms are already starting to manifest, and I can’t go a second longer without knowing more about her.
Taking a deep breath for courage, I clear my throat, then wince when it comes out all rough and growly and causes her to nearly jump out of her skin. She whirls with an adorable little scowl, and my insides turn gooey. While part of me feels like an ass, my beast practically glows, basking at having her undivided attention.
Not wanting to frighten her any more, I quickly avert my gaze and watch her out of the corner of my eye. “What’s your name?”
I’m not even breathing as I wait for her answer.
She looks at me a little quizzically, possibly questioning my sanity, but I refuse to be cowed. I give her a little smile, careful to keep my mouth closed and my fangs concealed, hoping to charm her into answering.
Her eyes narrow even more, her expression turning squinty, as if she’s trying to decide whether or not to trust me.
At her undivided attention, I straighten my spine. I run a hand down my chest, then wince at all the matted, snarled fur, and I curse myself for my deplorable grooming habits. Months of captivity are no excuse.
I must look like a monster to her.
When she turns away without answering, my spirits fall, and my leopard caterwauls in my head. I manage to take a few shuffling steps after her when she relents with a sigh, then mumbles her name lightly under her breath. “Anita.”
Her name imprints itself on my soul, and pleasure bursts in my chest at the small boon. The fact that she would trust me enough with her name gives me a boost of confidence, like I passed some sort of test, and I congratulate myself for being so smooth.
