Page 397 of Hate Mates

It’s my turn to pull her on top of me, and my hands cup her cheeks as I look at her. Shades of cinnamon, rose, and cream, she’s adorable as she smiles the content grin of a well-fucked woman. Not that I’ve seen it before, but I just know. “My beautiful mate.”

Our lips meet as eyes drift closed, and the feel is almost as good as being inside her when her tongue touches mine briefly. When we part, she smiles again and then wriggles. “If you kiss me like that again, I’m going to need you to get hard really quick.”

Even with her being in heat, I think it might take me a bit of time. “We could take this to a bed and be more comfortable.” I don’t think I had actual sex in mind when I lead her back to the pool house.

“I’m not sure your family will want me there.”

I shrug and then loop my arms around her waist, holding her to me. “Star should be arriving soon for a redo on the proposal, which isn’t coming.” I quickly continue to stop the heat possession from building in her. “Besides,Iwantyouthere. You were my first—happily,” I add, “—and that means that they’ll have to get used to the idea. I have two older brothers, and two younger sisters. That’s more than enough political and economic pawns. I can be the one who marries for love.”

She repeats the words, testing them almost, and snuggles closer. “You never have to worry about rainy days with me.”

“I’ll dance in the full moon rain joyfully, knowing that it let me reconnect with you. Will you allow me to earn the right to be your partner?”

She kisses me quickly, her nose brushing mine. “We have a lot of missing time to catch up on.”

About the Author

Miya Kressin (she/her) lives in Wisconsin with her husband and three children, drinks a lot of coffee, plays with her two dogs, manifests glitter, collects and makes dice, andtriesnot to spend all day writing.

With 40+ titles published currently, Miya writes in a variety of genres from paranormal romance and LGBTQ erotic romance to fantasy and dystopian fiction.

Blood Moon Origens by Morgan Mercy

Chapter One

VIVIENNE HAWTHORNE

The candlelight flickers as I whisper the incantation, my breath curling into the cool air of my cottage. The scent of burning sage lingers, mingling with the faint trace of lavender I keep tucked inside my drawers to lull me into sleep. But there will be no peace tonight.

The wards are weakening.

I press my palm against the carved sigils on the wooden beam above my hearth, trying to summon the last reserves of my strength to reinforce them. But I can feel the strain in my bones, the ache that comes from keeping something locked away too long. My magic, buried beneath layers of protection, is stirring like a caged beast.

I should have known this wouldn’t last forever.

The world doesn’t allow witches to live in peace. Not after what the warlocks did. Not after they learned that our power—the magic running through our veins—is something they can consume, something they can twist into strength for themselves.

I was barely eighteen when I learned that truth. When I learned that the Hunt isn’t just a whispered myth, but a ritual. A game for warlocks to track, capture, and claim witches. Some aredrained, left as hollowed husks. Others become something else entirely—bonded, shackled, forever bound to the warlock who took them.

I refused that fate.

So I did what I had to do. I bound my magic. Made myself untraceable. Became something lesser to ensure my survival. And years later, when I felt the same raw, untamed power inside my niece, Selene, I did the same for her. She doesn’t know it, not yet. But one day, she will. One day, she will break free.

The house is silent except for the low crackle of the fire. The wards will hold another night. They have to.

Then the knock comes.

Soft. Slow. Deliberate.

My stomach tightens.

I move to the door, pressing my hand against it, reaching—not with magic, but with something older, something instinctual. The air shifts. There’s power on the other side.

And I know.

I don’t need to see his face to know who’s waiting for me in the dark.

My fingers tremble as I undo the latch. The door creaks open, and there he stands. Masked. Cloaked in shadows. But I don’t need to see his face to recognize the shape of him, the breadth of his shoulders, the way he fills the space with something so much heavier than just his presence.

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