Page 38 of Love At First Roar
Callum remained still.
She crossed to the table, grabbed a cloth to clean her hands. The burn cream left a slick film, tingling against her palms. She needed air, needed space before her own magic started reacting again.
“You should go,” she said quietly, not turning.
He stood behind her, footsteps slow, heavy. “Cora?—”
“I’ll be fine. You’re healed. Training continues tomorrow.” She kept her voice steady. Her heart didn’t get the memo.
He hesitated. She heard it in the way he breathed, like something in him warred with everything else. But in the end, the door opened. Then it shut.
And she was alone.
The cottage held the weight of him even after he left. His scent clung to the air, warm and wild. Her fingertips still tingled from touching his skin.
Cora braced both hands on the table and stared down at the wood grain. “So that’s how it feels,” she whispered. “To kiss someone and wish you hadn’t.”
But even now, she couldn’t regret it.
Because for one breathless second, Callum had kissed her like he was starving. Like he’d forgotten the walls around him. And she’d felt the truth beneath all that guarded silence.
He wanted her too. Just not enough to let her in.
20
CALLUM
The scent of lilacs clung to his shirt.
Callum yanked it off and tossed it across the cabin. It landed in a heap on the back of the chair, still damp with Cora’s magic and the faint trace of whatever the hell that moment had been between them.
He paced. Floorboards creaked beneath his boots. The fire had gone out an hour ago, but sweat still beaded at his temple like he’d run the perimeter of Hollow Oak twice. He rubbed the back of his neck and swore under his breath.
“You don’t want what I am.” The words had slipped out, harsh and final, but even now they rang false in his head. He didn’t regret saying them—he meant them. He just hated the truth sitting underneath it.
Because gods help him, he wanted her.
The kiss had cracked something open. She’d leaned in with soft certainty, and for a second he’d let it happen. Let himself want it. Her lips had tasted like heat and heartbreak. Her hands had moved like she already knew the rhythm of his scars.
And that was the problem.
He didn’t get to want things anymore.
Wanting led to Tessa, to blood-soaked forest ground and the sickening stillness of a body that didn’t rise again. Wanting meant getting soft. Getting attached. Getting shattered.
Cora was a storm wrapped in sunlight. She made the forest hum when she laughed. The Veil leaned toward her like it was listening. Everything about her terrified him in an addicting way.
His lion hadn’t stopped pacing since he walked her home the first time. It clawed at his chest, insistent, growlingmineeven while he shoved the thought down. She was temporary. A flicker. A breeze. She would leave like all things did. He had learned that lesson, carved it deep into the marrow of his bones.
Still, when he shut his eyes, all he could see was her face.
“Shit,” he muttered, snatching his coat. The walls were too tight, the silence too loud. He needed a drink. Or a distraction. Or a damn exorcism.
The Silver Fang was quiet this early. The regulars hadn’t rolled in yet, and the fire in the hearth was still stretching itself awake. Maeve stood behind the bar, her dark hair pulled back in a short choppy ponytail, sleeves rolled, polishing a set of glasses like she’d been expecting him.
“Trouble,” she said without looking up.
He grunted, sliding onto a stool. “Is that what you’re calling me now?”
