Page 8 of Stolen
Recognizing.
Fated?
I don’t think so.
I mean, is anything ever that simple?
I step forward silently, cloaking myself in the illusions I’ve mastered since before her ancestors learned to light fire.
She doesn’t see yet. But me? I see everything.
The strain behind her eyes.
The shadows clinging to her like forgotten ghosts.
The heat in her blood.
She’s human. Entirely.
And exactly what I need.
The rules are clear—the first to find his fated mate and complete the bond becomes Prime.
But no one said the mate has to know any of that.
Make her fall for you. Bind her to you. Pretend until the magic believes it.
That’s the game.
And I’m very good at games.
I always win.
“Where did you come from?” she asks.
A crash of bottles from inside the bar startles her.
When she flicks her gaze back to mine—something happens.
Those wide, whiskey-colored eyes capture my attention like nothing else has in a millennium.
Still, I don’t speak.
Not yet.
I let the air thicken between us like smoke.
Then, softly, I ask, “Are you alone in the world?”
I know the answer, but her verbal acquiescence is necessary to the magic.
Her lips part.
Confused. Curious. Slightly wary.
“Yes,” she whispers.
Perfect.
