Page 15 of Claimed By the Grumpy Shifter

The thought is oddly comforting.

"Everything sounds amazing," I say, scanning the menu. "I'm thinking the salmon with lemon butter sauce. What about you?"

"Steak. Rare."

Of course. I can't imagine him eating anything that isn't red meat, preferably bloody. There's something almost primal about the way he says it, like he's thinking about hunting and killing rather than ordering from a menu.

The waiter finally approaches our table, still looking nervous but professional. Marc orders for both of us, along with a bottle of wine that probably costs more than I make in a week. When the waiter leaves, Marc turns his full attention back to me.

"Tell me about the shop," he says. "How did you get into flowers?"

"It's not very exciting," I warn him.

"I'll be the judge of that."

So I tell him about Mrs. Chelsea, about learning to arrange flowers in her kitchen when I was twelve years old. About the way different blooms have different personalities, how color and scent can tell stories and capture emotions. About the joy of creating something beautiful for people's most important moments.

He listens with an intensity that's almost overwhelming, asking questions that show he's not just being polite. He genuinelywants to know about my work, my passion, the things that make me who I am.

"You light up when you talk about it," he observes when I pause to sip my wine.

"Do I?"

"Like you're glowing from the inside out. It's..." He shakes his head, looking almost pained. "It's beautiful."

When was the last time someone really saw me? Really listened to what mattered to me?

"What about you?" I ask. "What makes you light up?"

His expression shuts down so quickly it's like watching blinds slam closed. "Nothing comes to mind."

"Nothing? There has to be something. A hobby, a dream, something you're passionate about."

"I'm passionate about survival," he says flatly. "About not fucking up other people's lives. Beyond that..." He shrugs.

The words are like a slap, revealing depths of pain I can't even begin to fathom. What happened to this man? What did he see, what did he do, that left him so convinced he's only capable of destruction?

"Marc," I say softly, reaching across the table to cover his hand with mine.

The contact galvanizes him. His hand flips palm-up to capture mine, his thumb stroking across my knuckles.

"You're going to try to fix me, aren't you?" he asks, and there's something almost resigned in his voice.

"Do you need fixing?"

"More than you could possibly imagine."

"Good thing I like a challenge."

His laugh is short and bitter. "You have no idea what you're getting into."

"Maybe not," I admit. "But I'd like to find out."

He stares at me for a long moment, his thumb still stroking my hand, and I can see a war being fought behind his amber eyes. Whatever he's battling, part of him wants to let me in. I can see it in the way he holds my hand like a lifeline, in the way his expression softens when he looks at me.

"Why?" he asks finally.

"Why what?"

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