Page 35 of Chev's Mate

I wish I knew more about them. I was taken from the nymph lands when I was a child, and I was never taught about bonds or mates—at least not in detail. I know minimal, and everything I’ve read online sounds horrible. I suppose I could ask Chev about it, but I fear he’d get too excited. Echo would be the next person I’d go to, but I’d rather die than explain to her how her brother makes me feel.

My hands still shake, and I wipe them on my pants before opening my front door. I’m met with crisp air and the sound of birds, but I ignore it all as I run toward my golf cart. I continually scan the woods for any sign of Chev. I imagine he’s too big to hide, but the woods are his specialty.

I know he’s out there, and I’d rather be aware of it than be ignorant.

My pulse races, and I set my things in my cart before straightening my spine and looking into the woods. I search them again, still not seeing anything beyond trees and dirt. Maybe he isn’t here.

“Chev?” My voice isn’t as loud as I want it to be, but shifters have good hearing. If he’s out there, he’ll hear.

I clasp my hands behind my back and rock on my heels, waiting. For a long moment, there’s nothing, just me and the morning air. After a second, though, there’s movement. Chev steps out from behind a tree, and he’s much closer than I thought he’d be.

How did I miss him? He’s twice as wide as the trunk.

His lips curl into a timid smile, but they fall when I don’t give one back. I’m too busy panicking, and I wipe my hands on my pants again before gesturing for him to come over. I don’t know why I’m doing this or what I want to say, but our bond doesn’t care. It urges me to invite him into my space and life, and I’m having difficulty denying it.

It’s annoying.

Chev greets me. “Vanessa.”

His voice is low, and I force myself to maintain eye contact as he approaches. He stands on the other side of my golf cart, and he plants his hands on the roof before bending to peer through it. I forget how large he is until he’s close. It’s unnerving.

“Chev,” I say.

His shirt is stretched tightly around his shoulders and arms, and it’s a wonder the seams haven’t ripped. It rides up at the waist, exposing a sharp V leading into his jeans. I refuse to lower my gaze any further.

Silence stretches between us, but Chev doesn’t seem to mind. He’s grinning at me.

“How’s your head?” I eventually ask.

Chev’s smile widens, and it takes everything in me not to move when he slowly rounds the vehicle separating us. What’s he doing? My throat is dry and scratchy, my nerves at an all-time high as he lowers himself into the driver’s seat and dips his head. He seems to sense that I’m too nervous to talk, and he doesn’t pressure me with conversation as he shows me the top of his head.

I know precisely where his injuries are thanks to Gray, and I hesitate before bringing my fingers to his scalp. Chev leans into my touch, loud noises emerging from his chest as I timidly move his hair around.

The skin is healed, and the few injuries Gray pointed to last night are gone. Chev has a handful of tiny bald spots from where the fence ripped out his hair, but they’re nearly impossible to notice if you aren’t looking.

“Does it hurt?” I can’t help but ask.

Chev shakes his head, causing his hair to slide through my fingers. It’s surprisingly soft, the wavy strands well cared for. Shifters are known for their healthy hair, skin, and nails. Our children will likely have beautiful hair, too.

I rip my hands off his head, shocked and disgusted with my train of thought.

I’ll never give Chev children. The only intimacy I’ve ever encountered has been through force, and the thought of willingly letting a man put his hands on me feels wrong. I’ll never want that.

“My mate mark darkened after our kiss yesterday,” Chev says.

My eyes, without my permission, travel to his thighs. I take sick pleasure knowing I’ve caused the damned marking to change. I’ve spent a long time staring at old photos of him, and I wonder what it looks like now. How dark has it gotten?

I refuse to ask. I should be avoiding Chev, not running my fingers through his hair and discussing his mate mark. This is the exact opposite of what I should be doing. Despite how good the bond feels when I give in, I can’t.

I’ll never be able to give Chev what he wants, and I’m doing this for him just as much as I’m doing it for myself.

“Do nymphs have mate marks?” Chev asks.

My fingers twitch, and I fight my instinct to reach up and touch my spot. I’m happy it lives on the back of my neck, where it can’t easily be seen.

“Yes, we do,” I say, purposefully being vague.

Chev frowns. I hate it when he does that, and I blow out a frustrated breath before spinning around. I’m all too aware I’m putting my back to him, leaving myself vulnerable, but I tell myself he isn’t going to hurt me as I bundle up my hair.

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