Page 31 of Fangs for the Memories
I see Grace’s eyes widen as she takes in my demon chef leaving the tray of food, and the door clicks closed again.
“Are you hungry?” I ask as the scent of goulash reaches us. “The very least I can do is feed you.”
Grace’s eyes flicker to the food and back to me, like a tiny doe who needs to be coaxed to a meal.
Then she nods, an almost imperceivable movement which doesn’t break the connection between my hand and her face.
I have her, here in my grasp, and yet I don’t know if I have her at all.
But she is my mate, and if I can’t claim her, then I might as well say goodbye to everything I know.
Because if Grace rejects me, I can no longer call myself an alpha wolf. Instead, I will be a rejected mate, and rejected mates have no place leading a pack.
Grace
As much as I hate to admit it to myself, with Ferenc in the room with me, I feel significantly better.
It can’t be because I feel safe with him. His suit is a mess, ripped in places, and he smells terrible, like he’s been digging around in an ancient tomb, but with his dark eyes looking into mine, his fingers on my skin, it seems like all the anxiety leaves my body.
There is just him…and me.
Which I need to shake off because, werewolf or not, I’m not interested in a rebound relationship. Mark hurt me more than enough for me to swear off men, or the male of any species, not to go there ever again.
A shame because Ferenc is truly a fine specimen. His gorgeous, handsome face studies mine, the shadow on his cheeks and chin darker now, with more of a scruff, his hair as unruly as ever, my fingers desperate to stroke through it, to feel his scalp under my touch.
But no. This is not for me. It can’t be. I don’t want a new romance, not when my old one, the one I never wanted, ended up in such public humiliation.
The interruption from what can only be described as an actual demon, all horns, tail, and wicked grin, doesn’t pull his gaze from mine.
It’s only when the scent of food, rich and meaty, hits me that I feel hungry and the spell, or whatever it was, is broken. Ferenc breaks away and collects the tray from next to the door, carrying it back to the bed and placing it down.
There is a large ornate china tureen, complete with a silver ladle, which he uses to scoop out the contents into two bowls before handing one to me along with a platter covered in thick slices of dark bread.
“Eat,” he exhorts. “Kornél makes the best goulash in all of Budapest.”
“Kornél. Is he the…?”
“Demon, yes.” Ferenc spoons some of the soup into his mouth, closing his eyes at the taste. “Kornél is a demon, but it turns out the damned also make great goulash, so I’m prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. That and he’s also a very good assassin, if you need that sort of service.”
I blow on a spoonful of the dark red liquid and carefully sip at it. The rich, earthy flavor of paprika bursts over my tongue along with meat and potato.
“Wow!” I swallow the rest in an instant. “That is delicious.” I dig in happily, using pieces of the dense bread to soak up the soup, and for a while we eat in silence, save for the clink of cutlery against porcelain and occasional sounds of enjoyment coming mostly from me.
I swirl the last of my bread around the bottom of my bowl to get the final drops of the soup into my mouth before placing it back on the tray.
“Good?” Ferenc queries.
I nod enthusiastically. I’m amazed at how revived I feel, despite falling asleep earlier, my emotions in tatters along with, it appears, my wardrobe.
But a little bit of goulash in the company of a werewolf and I feel better.
Ferenc picks up the tray and takes it out of the room. I shuffle back against the sumptuous headboard and hug my knees once again.
What am I going to do? I have my passport and a non-exchangeable plane ticket. No money. I am stuck here in Budapest for the next week and a half.
Ferenc returns, carrying a bottle and two crystal glasses. He’s removed his damaged suit jacket, and it appears he’s put on a fresh dark shirt. The door closes behind him, and he makes his way over to the bed with a steady predatory swagger. The mattress dips as he sits down.
“Whisky? You want some?” he asks
