Page 70 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
Our eyes met, and my face burned hotter than the steam billowing from the bathroom.
“Can I help you with something else, Detective?” His voice was teasing, but with an underlying tension.
I froze, standing there for an awkward moment, pulse hammering in my neck. Then I wordlessly pivoted and headed downstairs, my thoughts in disarray, wondering how I was going to make it through this entire evening without having a breakdown or my body betraying me.
When I heard him coming down, I turned to the window, feigning interest in the misty moor. The countryside stretched in watercolour washes of purple and green, but I wasn’t seeing any of it. My peripheral vision was consumed by Rory’s reflection—hair dripping, nothing but the towel knotted precariously at his waist.
I swallowed hard and pressed my forehead against the cool glass.
“Which jumper should I wear?” Rory’s voice broke through my determined study of a rock formation.
Despite my better judgement, I turned. Beads of water traced paths down his shoulders, catching the light. “What? Why are you asking me?”
“Because… you’re the only one here?”
Rory held up two jumpers—one a safe beige, the other a chunky cable knit in a rich, vibrant hue that caught my attention. It was the exact same impossible shade as his eyes—that mercurial blue-green that shifted like water, never settling on a single hue, defying description even to a man who collected words like treasures.
“That one,” I said, nodding towards it before I could stop myself.
He tossed the beige one aside and reached for the chosen jumper. My gaze betrayed me, dropping to the lean expanse of his torso—the defined ridges of his abdomen tensing as he stretched, the contours of a landscape I had no right to map. A narrow trail of dark-gold hair descended from his navel, disappearing beneath the fluffy cotton that hung dangerously low on his hips.
I turned back to the window. Nature had never seemed so fascinating.
“Good choice,” Rory said behind me. “Kit says it brings out my eyes.”
I made a noncommittal sound, not trusting myself to speak. To tell him how much it intensified that changeable colour that reminded me of deep forest pools in summer, of stormy seas in winter, of everything wild and untamed that I shouldn’t want but couldn’t stop thinking about.
Thank fuck I was the telepath, and not him.
Though Rory wasn’t blind. Or stupid.
“Though, isn’t it a fancy dinner or something?” I smoothed down the front of my crisp white button-down, suddenly self-conscious. At least I was wearing dark jeans.
“I don’t give a shit.” Rory glanced up from wrestling with his phone charger, his eyes widening slightly. “You look nice, though.”
I blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. Had I just received an actual, genuine compliment from Rory Thorne? The same man who’d spent the better part of eighteen months referring to me exclusively as “Detective Dickface”?
“But maybe…” Rory abandoned his charging cable and approached me slowly, as if I were a wild animal he was trying not to startle.
He reached for my arm, his fingers hovering near my wrist. I made no move to stop him. With surprising delicacy, Rory took hold of my cuff and began rolling the sleeve up my forearm, his movements deliberate and precise. Every brush of his fingertips against my skin sent ripples of awareness through me. He folded the fabric neatly, three turns that ended just below my elbow.
I extended my other arm without a word, watching as he repeated the process. Where his fingers grazed my skin, the static heat between us intensified, every tiny hair on my arm standing to attention.
“Much better,” he murmured, stepping back to assess his handiwork.
Zap.
There it was again—that electrifying shock, jumping between us like a living thing. Our eyes snapped together, and I froze, waiting for him to laugh it off as a “wolf thing” again. But instead, his teeth sought his lip, worrying at the skin there, his gaze dropping momentarily to my rolled sleeves before darting away.
Well,if he didn’t want to talk about it, I sure as hell wasn’t going to mention it.
Twenty minutes later—after waiting for Rory’s phone to charge to thirty percent, and then for him to say a rather extended goodbye to Freddy involving multiple kisses on his creepy little head—we finally left.
The evening air carried a bite as we walked towards the manor, the misty landscape swallowing the sun’s fading light. Rory walked beside me, his steps slowing as we approached the main path. His earlier bravado seemed to have evaporated, replaced by a tightly wound tension.
“He hid it well,” I said, breaking the silence. “But your uncle was very suspicious of me earlier.”
Rory glanced sideways at me, his lips quirking up slightly. “Of course he was suspicious. They all will be. You’re not pack.” He shrugged. “But don’t worry so much about Alex. He’s not that close with my mother. He’s the only nice one.”
