Page 29 of Waltzing With Witches

She casts me a quick glance over her shoulder. “I fell asleep.”

“I noticed.”

“Did I snore?”

“No.”

“I never snore.”

My lips twitch with the need to rebuke her sass with my teeth.

She falls silent, her body still comfortably within my arms. My fingers move of their own accord, trailing the edge of her shirt. Without really thinking, I slip them just underneath the soft fabric, brushing the backs of my fingertips along her side.

She hisses in a breath, arching against me as she throws her head back and to the side.

Inviting me.

It’s so natural, the way she responds. If I were a normal male, I’d bite my way up that pretty neck and slip my hand into her pants to tease her. Then I’d carry her inside, maybe go wild in the hallway, and then chase her through the house.

I stifle the groan that threatens to give away my thoughts.

Morgan beats me to it, a soft moan releasing from her throat. One of her hands comes to mine, resting flat along its back. I press my fingers further up her side, then trace a path along the side of her abdominal muscles, over the dip of her belly button and back again.

Suddenly, she jerks in my arms, her body stiffening. She grips my wrist and rips my hand from her skin. Sliding off the bike, she cuts me a narrowed look. “We really shouldn’t touch. You said you wanted to be friends, and you don’t seem like a friends-with-benefits sort of guy.”

The loss of contact sends me reeling, a cascade of emotions battering me as she stands there, glaring. The wrongness of this response isn’t lost on me, even though I’ve worked to ensure it since she arrived.

Shoving my natural instinct way down, I dismount the bike and reach into the saddlebag, grabbing the takeout. Rounding her, I head for the castle without a word. I don’t trust myself to respond, not now with my emotions running so high.

Keeper Rule #2: Make decisions with your people’s best interests at heart.

Morgan trails me inside, all the way to the kitchen, where I set the groceries down with a bang.

“You seem upset,” she says in a gentler tone than I have a right to expect.

I hold up a hand to stop her. “You’re right. I’ve given you no indication I want to start something physical. I shouldn’t have touched you.”

She slips gracefully onto a barstool, undoing the knot that holds her hair up in a messy bun. It falls in elegant red waves past her shoulders. She shakes it out, running her fingers through it, her gray eyes locked to mine. “Can you answer a few questions for me, Keeper?”

My nape prickles. I sense we’re in dangerous territory, the same way a prey animal might sense a predator around. But the reality is that I’ve never given her the full story about her and me. I can’t get away with it much longer. Not with her here in my home.

Our home.

I’ve got to get her out of here. I’ll do it tomorrow.

“Why’d you become a Keeper?”

I reach for the takeout as bitterness swamps me. “I had no choice. Once you reach adulthood, every monster goes through the keeping assessment, a series of logic tests. If you’re determined to be suited to the Keeper role, you become one. It’s a critical role, so it’s not optional.”

A displeased-sounding hum is her only answer. “What were you like before the training?”

I try desperately not to slump onto the counter in a miserable heap.

When my eyes find hers, it takes everything in me not to run from the room.

I find myself answering honestly. “I was not a blunt asshole. I was sarcastic and funny. Artistic. Creative. Kind, I hope. Empathetic, if you can imagine that.”

“It’s a little hard to picture,” she says. “But sometimes when the sunlight shines on you the right way, I can sorta see it.”

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