Page 27 of Howl for the Gargoyle

"Neither have I," Hannah said, a slight bitter note in her voice. Or maybe it was defeat.

MSA hadn't corrected my error, and they'd know my mistake with my second request, but I was already coordinating a new menu in my head—lentils, beans, and kale for protein, with a curried cauliflower steak. The roasted potatoes in the oven would be fine, and the berry crumble I'd prepped for dessert, after we'd unwound, worked too. Maybe I could convince the agents the pair of filets were for me, rather than fess up that I'd been the idiot who hadn't finished his client research.

I shut the garbage more gently than I'd dropped the pan and took a breath, finding Hannah's stare on me. "Sorry," I said, wincing slightly.

She shook her head. "It's fine."

But the soft, close mood from moments ago—when I was still buried inside of her and planning seven more ways to fuck her before morning—was gone now.

"Give me a five minute restart," I said, forcing a smile to my lips. "I have a plan."

Hannah's head tilted, glow brightening in her gaze. The tie of her dress was barely closed, just a simple single knot of the strings. She nodded, finally slipping out of the kitchen and into the living room.

"I'm going to stretch out for a bit."

There was a window through this kitchen, which meant I had a perfect view of her long-legged pace to the couch, the elegant flop of her body onto the generous cushions. Her groan carried to me as she stretched, hands reaching back behind her to brace against the arm of the couch, shoes sliding off to the floor, and toes curling as she arched.

Dinner, I reminded myself, tearing my stare off of her and reaching for the tablet to call down to the kitchen. A dinner that was delicious enough to make up for ruining the mood. And then I could draw another one of those groans from her lips.

CHAPTER 10

Hannah

Raphael—Rafe, which suited him better—was watching me eat. It would've been annoying, or it was annoying, but not enough to distract me from the food in front of me. I hummed softly as I bit into another buttery, crispy potato, and my mouth watered as salt and rosemary filled my palate. Rafe was a very good cook, and aside from the initial scramble over the burnt steaks, he hadn't hesitated to whip together a stunning replacement for a meal. A meal I didn't really need, because I'd thrown together a peanut spring roll before I'd left for the appointment, but one I was devouring enthusiastically all the same.

Because it was fucking delicious. I sighed over the perfect balance of salt against heat, acid against fat, and then stared lovingly down at my plate, deciding on my next bite.

"I really am sorry about earlier," Rafe said, the wobble and panic in his voice vanished now, and that dark resonant tone my skin loved to goosebump for returned.

I scooped up more sautéed beans and lentils and shrugged, glancing up at him. "I understand the mistake. Like you said, we don't know any other vegetarian werewolves."

And even burnt to a crisp, my mouth had watered and my stomach had clawed itself alive at the smell of the meat. It'd also made me queasy at the thought of eating it, and not because of the poor preparation.

Rafe opened his mouth to answer, closed it, and then paused. He had a curl standing upright right at the front of his hairline, a comically sweet touch to his outrageously handsome face, and I briefly considered abandoning my meal to go plant myself in his lap and study the leaden and silky texture of his hair in my hands again. But no, the food was too good.

"You have more self-control than any other werewolf I've met."

I stilled, a loaded fork halfway to my mouth hanging open, and stared back at Rafe. The statement was too absurd, jangling through my head, to say anything but "No."

He laughed, sagging back into his chair—designed with one narrow line down the spine that accommodated his wings to hang over the back—and it delivered a mild protesting creak. "Yeah."

I set down my fork, taking a consolatory lick of my lips and wanting to sigh again at the lingering flavors. "Not around the full moon."

Rafe shrugged and rolled his eyes. "No werewolf has self-control around the full moon. That's part of the package. But to get through months without changing your diet takes a massive amount of self-control."

I winced. "Then maybe that's where it's all getting spent," I said, finally returning to my plate.

"I doubt it," Rafe continued. "You have yet to barrel-roll me flat on my back the second you walk in the door."

I snorted. "Is my ability to stand upright upon entry all it takes to prove control?"

Rafe sat up, picking up his wine. "Yeah, kinda."

I hummed around a bite of perfectly crispy and tender cauliflower, and considered the words. "I have a friend…a mentor, actually, from a support group. He is the most mild-mannered werewolf you'll ever meet."

Rafe tipped his head. "You've spent the full moon with him?"

I shuddered at the idea of being around another werewolf when we were both shifted and shook my head. "No, he spends it with his mate."

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