Page 43 of Jace's Mate
She turned to him.“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
He stepped closer, eyes narrowing slightly.“For what?”
They stood in the underground parking garage.Dim light overhead.Concrete stretching in all directions.The distant hum of engines echoed, too far away to matter.It was the last place anyone would call romantic.
And yet—her breath hitched.
Something about the way he looked at her made her stomach flip.Maybe it was the fire simmering in his eyes.Maybe it was the way he moved—closer, always closer.Her instincts screamed at her to back away.
But her feet stayed rooted to the ground.
A low growl rumbled from his chest, and her whole body responded.Heat.Hunger.A desperate, reckless ache to close the space between them.
Before she could act on it, he pinned her against the side of the SUV.
“Anikka,” he growled, voice deep and raw.“I’m not going to kiss you yet.”
Her breath caught.What?“Why not?”
“Because you don’t understand what kissing me would mean.”He leaned in, brushing a hand gently through her hair.“You don’t fully understand what you are.Or what I am.”
His touch skimmed down to her cheek.He stared at her skin like he could read a map written there.
“It’s gone,” he murmured.
She blinked.“What’s gone?”
“The bruise.”His thumb brushed over the spot, so tender she barely felt it.But his touch sent a wave of heat straight to her core.“The place where your uncle hit you.It’s already healed.”
She couldn’t respond.Her mouth was dry.Her thoughts fogged.
His tone shifted suddenly, catching her off guard.
“Do you really know how to make blueberry cobbler?”he asked.
It was the same voice—deep, slightly rough—but there was hope threaded through it now.
She laughed, the tension breaking.He looked so serious, soinvested.“Yes, I’m a good cook,” she teased, then bit her lip, amused at the intensity of his stare.“At least, that’s what people tell me.”
“What do you put in it?”he asked, leaning just slightly closer.
She smiled.“Lots of blueberries.Though this time of year, I’d have to use canned fruit.”
He nodded solemnly, like that was a crucial detail.
“Topping?”he pressed, his hand sliding to the small of her back.
Her breath caught again.
The heat of his hand.The weight of it.The way itfitagainst her spine like it belonged there.
She stammered, “I—I use oatmeal.And whatever cookies I have on hand.I crush them up, mix everything with brown sugar, cinnamon, and butter.”
The elevator chimed, and he nudged her forward.
The doors closed behind them.His scent enclosed her like a storm cloud—dark, musky, heady.
She tried not to breathe.
