Page 152 of Evil Hearts

Chapter Four

She thinks Imeant a beast on the ice. What would she think if she knew I meant a literal beast? Not a human.

A beast who thinks in terms of mates first and human marriages second, a wild, feral thing who would stretch her to her limits and pound her like a wild animal.

I swallow repeatedly as we walk into the hotel and ride up to my room. My attempts at small talk die in my throat.

Stop being the Uncomfortable Snowman!“What are your plans after Puck Con?” I croak.

“Oh, here and there. I’m going to go home to Brazil in time for Carnival.” Fia’s face lifts to mine, joyous, then dark.

“Going home isn’t good?” I venture.

“Going home is great. My relatives are just a little upset each time I return without a ring on my finger. I was going to be married to a local celebrity, a sports figure, like you.”

“Ah. But?” But she’s here, and she isn’t wearing a ring. Clearly not thinking about him if she’s having dinner with me—and giving off a scent that makes it hard to walk.

“I shouldn’t say he’s like you. Oh, he was talented on the field like you are on the ice.” Her voice turns breathy and she clears her throat, a hand ruffling absently through her curls, sending new waves of her unique scent spiraling at me like a guidedmissile. “Unlike you, he hated my job and my desire to travel, and he had a nasty, jealous streak.”

“Well,” I say, lifting my hand to give her a supportive pat on the back and then letting my hand fall without ever touching her, “he must never have seen your work, or he’d be a huge fan, like me. I understand what you mean about the traveling, though. You hear about women who break up with professional players all the time because they can’t stand the idea of their mate—I mean, their man—traveling. During the season, I’m away for half the month, off and on.”Which would make her an ideal mate. She could travel with me if she wanted. I could travel with her in the off-season. Even if we were separated a lot of the time, the homecomings would be so sweet.

So satisfying.

I float off the elevator and open my hotel room door in a fog. Fia follows me, nodding as she passes through the door I hold open for her with the little chivalry I’m able to hold onto.

“I pointed out that he would expect me to support him when he traveled for his career, but no. He did see my work and called it a hobby. I mean, it’s true that most of the money comes from weddings and newborn photoshoots, but I like those, too. To a lot of my clients, that moment of promising eternal love or that moment of looking at a new life is their redwood forest or their sunset over Niagara Falls. It marks the achievement of their greatest goal, bigger than any safari or trek along the Great Wall. The little gigs pay the bills, but they aren’t truly little. They make life worth living. ”

I nod so hard my fur flops over my eyes. “Yes! You know, it’s the same with being in a minor league team. Some people can’t understand why a player would be content to stay in the minors, and not push for the majors. They don’t understand that for some of us, the joy of the game is enough, or the love of being part of one big thing in a little town, for really knowing thepeople who cheer for you, for being someone’s local hero just by doing your favorite thing… you get it.”

“I get it.”

Fia could not be any more perfect.

She seems to sense that our level of connection is beyond superficial, too. Her hand finds mine, even though we’re now safely in the room. Her fingers knead my hand, then climb up my arm, under my jersey. Her hand is in my fur, slowly threading her fingers through it.

I should jump back. Run. Stop her from touching me.

“What is so different about you?” she whispers, her accent becoming more pronounced and, to me, all the more enticing and charming. Her scent seems to thicken, too, a cloying blend of spice and heat, honey, cinnamon, and a hint of something like cayenne and chocolate.

“A bunch of things,” I whisper. “Are you hungry?” I make a last-ditch effort to save myself from doing something stupid.

“Tell me one. Tell me about why you look like a Viking who just crawled out from under the snow,” she steps in front of me, hands boldly landing on either side of my neck as she stands on tiptoe.

I could push her hands off. Stop her.

Instead, I bend, almost purring as her hands massage the fur that coats my skin and move up to the shaggy mane that no amount of styling gel ever fully transforms into a “human” haircut.

“The camera doesn’t lie,” she mutters, roving eyes studying my mouth, my hair, the tint of my skin under her deep tan fingertips.

I can’t help but smile. My mate is caressing me. Smiling up at me in wonder. I wait for the look of curiosity to turn to horror as I remember too late that my teeth look quite predatory up close, with long, fangy canines.

“You’re a very unusual man, aren’t you?” Fia lets her hands fall.

I smother a moan of loss with an effort. “That’s one way to put it.”

“What’s another way? Werewolf? Mutant? Something like that?” she asks, one finger returning to trace my lower lip.

“No one will believe you. Most people can’t see it.”

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