Page 24 of Consume Me
His eyes narrow a fraction. He snaps his fingers. The forest melts away—replaced by a frozen wasteland. Jagged glaciers. Wind-blasted snow. An endless expanse of ice under a pale, washed-out sky.
I blink. “What’s this?”
His mouth quirks, just barely. “It matches the icy blue of your eyes when you look at me like that.”
I stare at him, refusing to feel flattered that he’d noticed the color of my eyes. “Like what?”
“Angry beyond reason. It’s devastatingly beautiful. Like an endless, frozen tundra.”
My heart flutters at his words.
It was an insult wrapped in a compliment, and here I am, melting. Who wants to be compared to a frozen tundra, anyway?
“How can I be anything but angry?” I shoot back, clinging to my outrage for balance. “You’ve kidnapped me, locked me in a realm I can’t escape, and I don’t even know your freaking name.”
He steps closer.
Leans in, close enough that his mouth nearly brushes mine.
Close enough that I can smell him. Delicious pine and damp earth. Musky. Masculine. Sexy as fuck.
Ugh.
“I am Noctan.” The name slips between us like a secret. Dark. Dangerous. Unshakeable. “I am the last living sentinel of the fae realm. Guardian of the Veil andblood-sworn to destroy the Whispering Daggers. I am the Amarok. The Destruction.”
Before I can ask what any of that means, he turns and walks away, leaving me blinking like an idiot. I don’t stop him. The part about destroying the daggers was easy enough to understand. Whispering Daggers, apparently. Whoever named them left out the Evil part. Without it, a whisper sounds so innocuous. So innocent. So misleading.
At the end of the hall, a door stands ajar.
I push it all the way open to find a dimly lit bedroom. It’s as stupidly gorgeous as the rest of the house—walls carved with ancient patterns, a fire flickering in the hearth, soft light glowing from lanterns set on carved wooden nightstands.
Across the space, through another door, the bathroom is made of smooth stone with shelves of soft towels and bottles that contain various soaps and shampoos, all of which smell like earth and pine. Like him.
I strip off what’s left of my dress, wincing at the ruined fabric. Then at the bruises. The tiara and necklace were lost during my chaotic fight against being kidnapped. Natalia’s going to be pissed I ruined her gift. But the sight of the steaming shower has me setting aside that worry.
The hot water hits my skin, and I groan at how good it feels. And even though I shouldn’t, I help myself to his soaps and shampoos. The scent of it has me picturing what it would be like to have him standing here with me. Naked and wet, hands lazily rubbing soap into my skin?—
Fuck.
This mate thing is no joke.
Sure, he’s hot. Sure, I’m attracted. But I’ve never been this distracted by the thought of a naked male before. It can only be due to him being my mate. Even now, I can feel some buried part of me yearning to go out there and claim him. To bond myself to him and never let him go. But the vision of a white-starred wolf ripping me apart keeps me rooted in the water. It’s bad enough I’m in his house. I might as well bare my throat to him and hand over my life on a silver platter. But if I leave now, I won’t find out what sort of vow he made to destroy the daggers. And if I let him snuff out that second one, will I survive it?
The buzzing in my head tells me not to risk it.
I scrub until the makeup and dirt are gone. Until my hair and skin are clean. Until I feel likemeagain.
The water never goes cold, and I decide right here and now, Noctan’s magic is, well, magical. The man clearly values the important things in life.
When I’m done, I towel off and run a comb through my tangled, wet hair. A short pile of clothes is waiting on the bed when I emerge—an oversized shirt that smells like him and a pair of tiny shorts that are clearly made for a woman’s body.
I don’t let myself think about the combination of those things here in his sanctuary.
Instead, I dress quickly and prowl the room for some sort of weapon. The nightstand drawer is empty. As is the bookshelf. Well, except for the fact that his book collection is impressive as hell. Poetry, folklore, crime novels,The Art of War. I snort at that. No one actually reads that one… right?
Hmm. A warrior wolf might.
The Amarok. Whatever that is.
