Page 63 of Wrongfully Magicked
I feel like I won the lottery.
She’s mine…she just doesn’t know it yet.
I can’t wait to demonstrate my worthiness. I’ll go slowly. I can be a very patient man when hunting a prize such as her. Eventually, I’ll be able to convince her that I would make an excellent mate.
I read humans adopt stray cats all the time.
It would virtually be the same thing.
It’s only a matter of time before I earn the right to claim her for my own, and my fangs ache at the thought of being allowed to mark her.
ANITA
After being dropped on my head one too many times in the last hour, my mind is slow to clear. The farther we walk, the more I start to wonder where the fuck my kidnappers took me and why. “Where are we?”
“We’re at the far side of a natural cave system.” The cat-man answers almost eagerly, his voice low and scratchy from disuse, and I shiver at the husky tone. “They built the dungeons away from the other parts of the cave system because of the stench and screams.”
The casual mention of torture makes my heart ache, and I glance at him over my shoulder, curious about the beastling, despite the situation. “What’s your name?”
His bright blue eyes flash toward mine for just a second before he returns to scanning our surroundings, but I don’t miss the satisfied smile that twitches his lips. It’s cute how careful he is to not display his fangs when he speaks. “Stryker. My name is Stryker.”
He practically purrs the name, his rumbling voice feeling like a caress, and my stride skips a step. The name suits him. Masculine. Powerful. Sexy. I clear my throat, fighting a blush, more than a little flustered at my inappropriate thoughts, and I decide to focus on the task at hand—escape. “Why did they take us?”
“They are collectors,” the insect snarks, not even a hitch in her stride. “They don’t need a reason.”
Unfortunately, I don’t think it’s that simple.
“Collectors?” I’ve never heard the term, and I glance back at Stryker for clarification. Maybe it’s foolish, but I feel at ease with him. That’s not my normal reaction when someone is trailing after me, but he radiates such warmth and comfort that I just want to cuddle up with him. It’s been so long since I felt any such emotions that I’m afraid to trust them.
“They hunt and collect rare creatures, storing them until they can be sold at an illegal auction that is held twice a year.” His whiskers flicker and twitch, giving away his agitation. “They also take jobs from the dark web, searching for bounties.”
He flicks a glance toward the insect, edging closer as if to protect me.
The girl snorts, her short white hair fluffing up in a way that has the strands sticking up at all angles. Her hair moves on its own, despite the complete lack of breeze to sway the strands, like they are little antennas collecting data from the air. She shoots a sardonic look at me, then quirks an eyebrow. “I’m curious which category you fall under.”
A knowing smile crosses her face, revealing her sharp little teeth. Not waiting for an answer, she turns and continues down the dark tunnel, her feet looking like they barely touch the ground. The passageway narrows, giving off a dark, creepy vibe.
It’s too quiet, the dirt muffling any sounds of approach, and it puts me on edge. I’m unable to get over the sensation that someone could creep up on us and none of us would be the wiser. The walls seem to close in on me, and anxiety tightens my chest.
A tiny purr rumbles from behind me, just a whisper of a sound, and it’s like a drug to my system. My body relaxes, the tightness in my chest easing, and I’m able to take my first deep breath since I woke up in this hellhole.
I glance back at Stryker, startling when I find his towering shape so close. Maybe I should be intimidated, but I kind of want to snuggle against him.
In this dark place, he feels like safety.
He continuously scans our surroundings, his ears constantly swiveling, and it’s all I can do not to give a girlie squeal and demand he stoop down so I can touch them. They look so fluffy, I can practically feel the fur under my fingertips.
He inhales deeply, his mouth slightly open as if tasting the air, and the tips of his fangs peek out between his lips. It’s just a hint, but it’s enough to remind me that beastlings are not pets.
They are more likely to kill you than allow you to touch them.
Which means no petting the pretty kitty, Anita.
While he appears big and strong, I don’t miss the slight tremble to his limbs or his unsteady steps. I don’t mistake him for being weak, a beastling is never truly weak, but he’s injured, starved, and possibly worse.
I’m not sure how long he can go before he’ll collapse, and I worry my bottom lip with my teeth, cursing that I’m not strong enough to catch him or drag him out if he falls.
Over a short period of time, I’ve grown attached to the big lug.
