Page 133 of Roaring Flames

“That’s true,” he agrees easily, pulling the car to a stop.

Dozens of cars line the dirt street. Up ahead, a short walk away, people move about, their faces indistinguishable. Unease curls in my chest like a snake.

“But my mother had me before she met her true pack. They adopted me when I was a baby.” Sadness splashes across his face, causing my chest to constrict.

“I wish you hadn’t lost them,” I whisper.

One of his hands rests on the center console, and I desperately want to reach for it. Squeeze it. Offer him comfort. But I resist.

“I never knew my birth father,” Christian confesses. “He was a one-night stand of my mother’s who died shortly before I was born. Drug overdose. My mother’s packmates were the only fathers I’ve ever known.”

Fuck it.

I place my hand over his. “I’m here for you if you ever want to talk.”

“I know.”

For a long moment, we simply sit there, not saying anything. Hell, we’re not even looking at each other, both of our gazes fixed on the shifters in the distance.

But I’ve never felt more at peace.

Is this the mating bond at work? Christian? I don’t know for sure, but I can’t say I’m upset. Warmth envelops me from head to toe, wrapping me in a comforting embrace I don’t want to escape from.

It’s Christian who breaks the silence first, his tone reluctant. “We should get out of the car.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of us moves.

Christian licks his lips and flicks his eyes in my direction. “I really am sorry that I kept all of this from you. I know I shouldn’t have?—”

“You really shouldn’t have,” I agree, interrupting him. I give his hand a squeeze before releasing it and unhooking my seat belt. “I’m not sure if I’ve forgiven you completely yet. You still need to grovel.”

”Grovel?” He arches an eyebrow.

When Ashton does it, he looks arrogant and pompous. When Christian does it, he just looks…cute.

Ugh. He’s killing me.

“You know…get on your knees and beg for my forgiveness and all that jazz,” I say, waving a hand in the air for emphasis.

His eyes heat, turning molten, and an answering blaze of warmth rushes straight to my core.

“If you want me on my knees, baby girl, all you have to do is ask.”

Oh. My. God.

A flush starts at my chest, traverses up my neck, and stops at my cheeks. I feel hot all over.

Christian smirks at whatever expression he sees on my face—probably one of absolute shock and wonder—then smoothly slides out of the car. It takes me a long moment to get myselfunder control, to calm my rampant heartbeat until it’s at a manageable level.

“That wasn’t nice!” I huff, following after a grinning Christian.

“What are you talking about?” he asks with an innocence befitting the devil himself.

I pantomime strangling him, and he laughs out loud at that, the noise carefree and airy. It causes an answering smile to pull at my lips. The butterflies in my stomach begin to riot.

We walk side by side to the party, our hands so close they almost touch. Each step causes the tips of our fingers to graze. At one point, I swear Christian hooks his pinkie with mine, but when I glance in his direction, he ignores me, focusing straight ahead.

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