Page 11 of Waltzing With Witches

She gives me a clipped nod as I turn the key in the ignition, my bike roaring to life. When I slip my arm around her waist and drag her against my chest, she stiffens. I’m careful not to grip her with my hand. I simply hold her still. But she’s close enough now that her red hair is right in my face.

“I promise not to be inappropriate,” I mutter.

She grants me no response, her body stiff as the dead.

I lean forward, using my hips to push off the kickstand. We surge into the street, and she grabs at my arm but immediately lets go.

“Doesn’t bother me,” I say in what I hope is a kind tone. I can’t tell how my tone seems anymore, yet another thing Keeper training took from me. I’m barely able to read my own diminished emotions, much less anyone else’s. That facet of Keeper training is designed to help us be supremely logical in service of efficacy.

I’ve always had my doubts about that. It’s why I declined the identification process in the first place and left the haven system.

That was a long time ago, though.

In the here and now, Morgan appears tense and smells mad and afraid. Logically, I know she’s likely to need reassurance.

She doesn’t respond, though, and doesn’t grab my arm again. Her hands move to her thighs, balled there as we drive slowly up Main Street toward Sycamore. I hook a left, the bike’s throaty motor purring off the buildings.

Morgan sits rigidly in front of me, even though her arms and legs brush mine as we drive away from downtown. It’s not until we’re well past the inhabited area that I kick the bike into higher gear and speed along the dark road.

Fifteen minutes later, my bike is still the only sound as we pass the defunct skyball stadium. The roar of the engine echoes off the beautiful building we only used once. It’s unfortunate that we can’t use it for something else, but when I pick through a short list of ideas in my mind, nothing seems quite right. We typically don’t even practice skyball until right before a final.

I zoom around a corner, forgetting that Morgan isn’t hanging on. She careens to the side and grabs my thigh, throwing herself against my chest with a gasp. Without meaning to, I wrap an arm around her, fingers curling around her side. Her stomach is firm beneath her tee, and it makes my fingers itch. If I slipped them up underneath the edge of the soft fabric, what would her skin feel like?

Heady desire filters through me, warming my body to a temperature closer to hers. And the only fucking reason my body even does that is because she’s my mate—despite the fact that I can’t have her. All vampires warm or cool to the temperature of their mates to ensure coupling isn’t uncomfortable.

At least the body temperature portion of it.

Coupling with a vampire is uncomfortable in other ways, especially for nonvampire species.

I’ve got to stop thinking about it. Morgan’s still in my arms, her chest rising and falling with rapid, harried movements. Long red hair whips around my head and neck. I call on my Keeper training, pulling mental blocks down around my sensual thoughts until I reach normal again.

No.

Not normal. I’ll never be normal. But I feel like the Keeper once more—neutral, logical, always in control.

We fly around a corner and up the twisty road toward my castle. Black stone walls rise into dark spires that jut into the night sky. The front drawbridge is down, the double front doors wide open. I pull the bike into the circular driveway and park it.

I expect Morgan to leap off and back away from me, but she doesn’t. Her eyes are on the castle, drinking it in like it’s the first time she’s seen it. It’s not though, so I’m unsure why she seems entranced this time.

“So sad,” she murmurs under her breath, gray eyes locked on the uppermost spires of the castle.

“The castle’s not sad,” I assure her. “She’s built to mirror a Keeper. Keeper homes are always like this—stoic and quiet.”

Dark eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, but she looks away from me, cocking her head to the side. Without saying anything else, she swings one long leg over the bike and reaches for her bag.

I hike it higher over my shoulder. It makes logical sense to be gentlemanly.

“You had a rough night, Morgan,” I offer. “Allow me to make it an easier morning.”

Pink steals across her cheeks, but she nods, slipping both hands into her back pockets. For a long moment, her eyes focus on mine, and I find myself lost in those dark depths. They’re not a pale gray. Every shade of steel and stone and granite is reflected in her eyes. They’re light and dark and everything in between. If I were still the man I used to be, I’d wax poetic about those eyes and how all-encompassing they are, like stepping into a thundercloud.

As it is, I allow myself to stare into them for a moment longer than I should.

Morgan’s cheeks flush brighter pink, her lips parting. “What are you doing?” she questions in that throaty voice.

I pause to consider her question. What am I doing? I can’t have her; I won’t allow myself to. So why am I staring into her eyes like a lover?

“I don’t know,” I finally admit. Turning away from what I suppose is awkward behavior, I head toward the castle. “C’mon,” I call out over my shoulder. “I’ll give you the tour.”

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