Page 93 of Ruthlessly Mated
She is sitting cross-legged in bed with a very large bowl of cake smashed together in several chunks. She has extra syrup drizzled over the top, and ice cream on the side. It is enough dessert for an entire pack.
She snarls as I enter, a deep animal sound that makes something inside me quiver.
I suddenly know why Conroy looked like he did. Something’s changed.
“What do you want?” She asks the question with a harsh timbre to her tone, and the general demeanor of a beast who just took down her first prey and does not intend to share any of it.
I had intended to raise a brow and lecture her about good behavior and tell her that if she wanted to bite, she’d soon find herself muzzled—maybe even do it myself with my cock, give her something to fill her mouth with. But the energy in the room suggests I’d be more likely to lose my member than have it pleasured.
Something has shifted inside Kita. Something that makes her seem twice as fierce as she has ever been before.
“Do you want something to drink?”
“Oh,” she says. “No. Thank you.”
“Alright, call out if you need.”
I shut the door and go back downstairs to join Conroy at the kitchen table.
“What happened to her, or with her?”
“Nothing that I know of. I was down at the docks today, came back, found her in the kitchen making a cake, and then when I asked what it was in aid of she snapped, told me she didn’t have to justify her actions, and when I told her she better watch how she talked to me, she smashed the whole cake into a bowl and bit me.”
“Okay.”
Damon walks in at that moment with a curious expression on his face. He sits down with us and looks at our faces.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Probably.”
“Where’s Kita?”
“Upstairs.”
He nods, and goes upstairs. We can hear his feet on the stairs, and then on the landing, and then he opens the door.
“Wargle bargle dink donk furk!” Something muffled comes from the upstairs room. Words, probably, but they’re more like machine gun fire.
We hear footsteps on the stairs, and then Damon comes back into the kitchen looking concerned.
“I think she’s possessed.”
He’s never spoken to us this much in his life.
Conroy and I exchange looks. It sounds silly, but I can sense us both somewhat agreeing with him.
“We should go and talk to the doctor.”
“She’s a doctor, not a witch doctor,” Conroy says.
“I know, but she’s the only doc we have, and she has enough experience with our kind to keep us alive, and I don’t know who else we can talk to about this and get anything other than break-up-with-her advice.”
“Break up with her?” Conroy snorts.
“That’s the default advice for everything from a partner who won’t do dishes to one who kills your whole family.”
“From who?”
