Page 67 of The Shattered Kingdom
“Do you have dogs here?” Abby continues.
Mason can’t answer in this form, so I answer for him.
“No.”
Abby makes a quiet noise of surprise. “Humans have domesticated wolves, and we call them dogs. They come in all shapes and sizes, and some larger breeds resemble a smaller version of Mason.”
I think I understand what she’s talking about. We don’t have pets, but we occasionally purchase mammals to keep rodents out of barns. They look nothing like Mason, though.
“Anyway,” Abby continues, “it helps when I think of Mason as a pet. I like them, and I’m pretending Mason’s a large dog. If you were, I’d put a bow in your fur and feed you treats.”
Mason ignores every word that comes out of her mouth. I try to listen, I really do, but she loses me at bows and treats. Our mate is odd.
I’m trying to think of something to say, something to humor her, but my mind is blank. I’m usually good at speaking, quick on my feet and comfortable owning conversations, but Abby’sexceptionally skilled at turning me into a wordless fool.
Mason doesn’t seem to have that problem. If he weren’t in his animal form, I’m sure he’d respond with something rude or sexual.
He’d tell her he’d wear a thousand bows for her treats. Then he’d slide his hand down her backside to show her precisely what treat he has in mind. Abby would huff and push him away, but then her face would turn red and her arousal would saturate the air.
If I tried that, I’d get elbowed in the throat. Abby doesn’t lust for me like she does for Mason. It’s my fault. I pulled away, throwing myself into work and Lillian.
Burning-hot shame rushes through me whenever I think about the faerie woman. Mason knew something was wrong with the bond—he made that clear from the very start—but I ignored his visible discomfort and reluctance. I was convinced Lillian was ours, and I ignored every sign that suggested otherwise.
I touched Lillian in front of Abby. IkissedLillian in front of Abby.
Does Abby think about it? When she looks at me, does she think of my lips and hands on Lillian? I want to scrub the memories from her brain. It’s no wonder she prefers Mason. He never indulged Lillian, and the few times he allowed the faerie to touch him, he looked like he’d been swallowing nails. He visibly hated it.
Mason takes off into the forest. He says and indicates nothing before darting away, his muscular frame pushing him out of sight. I close the distance between me and Abby, keeping her close.
“Give me your bag,” I order.
I let her carry it for fun, but the time for her spiteful independence is over.
Abby wordlessly slips the bag off her shoulders. I throw itover mine, then place a hand on the back of her neck. My fingers curl around her throat, and I slowly guide us to stand so my back is to the river and I can see into the surrounding woods.
Abby buries her face into my chest, her body shaking. She’s terrified.
Mason’s not within my sight or hearing range, and I brush my thumb over the back of Abby’s neck to keep her calm and her heart steady. I’ve developed an obsession with listening to it, and it’s hard to focus when it’s pounding so aggressively in her chest.
“You’re okay,” I whisper.
She grabs my waist, and I continue surveilling the woods as she slips her fingers under my shirt and touches my bare skin. She isn’t wearing gloves, and I can’t help but shiver at the contact. It’s surprisingly steadying.
Does she remember when Lillian touched me like this? I can’t lie and say Lillian’s touch was unpleasant. It was the first skin-to-skin contact I’d ever had with a woman who wasn’t a blood relative. It was nothing compared to this, though.
I want to wrap myself around Abby and cling to her until I’m dead. I crave it. Ineedit.
There’s commotion to my left, and I shift Abby to the right. Mason is out there alone, but I won’t leave Abby unprotected. I have to trust Mason to take care of it. He’s a better fighter than I am, anyway.
I rely on my magic, but Mason is pure brute strength. I can hold my own against a shifter or two, but Mason moves through them with an easy I can’t match. He’s not threatened until surrounded by a minimum of five or six full-grown adult males.
There’s more rustling, and I tighten my grip on Abby’s neck as fur weaves through the trees. It’s not Mason.
I slide our bags off my shoulders. “Get on the ground, put the bags on top of you, and don’t move.”
For once, Abby listens. She drops to the dirt and drags our bags over the top of her. They’re thick, and they’ll act as a barrier between her skin and a pair of sharp teeth.
Two shifters come darting in our direction a second later. I step in front of Abby, fighting the instinct to use magic as the shifters approach. These two must’ve slipped past Mason.
