Page 7 of Shadows of the Soul

“Stop,” I cried out.

He flashed in and out of my swimming vision, coming closer with each new appearance. Blood splashed across his face, coated his cheeks, his nose, and saturated his chocolate brown hair. It defied gravity.

“Para de lastimarme, por favor,” he whispered before disappearing, leaving me with the rising sun and the sinking feeling that something terrifying had come to White Castle.

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

My heart for a blueberry pancake.

I’d converted the stables a few years ago. Long-term residents were lucrative and not generally problematic, unless Rebecca took a liking to them—then I had to hope they were single. In fact, the building had been transformed originally for the vampire princess, alas it wouldn’t provide her with the hunting grounds for the number of sexual encounters she required. She preferred to swan around my bed-and-breakfast, picking off loner supernaturals for a night of passion. I hammered my fist on the navy wooden door.

A second later, it flew open. He would only be that quick if he’d been waiting for me.

My breath stuttered in my chest as I attempted to not ogle a freshly showered Hudson. Barefooted, with his shirt gaping open and still dripping hair, he looked like every red-blooded woman’s wet dream. Don’t drool. That would be embarrassing.

“Bad morning?” he asked, eyeing me from head to toe.

I frowned. “Why would you think that?”

He cocked his head to the side. “You have blood on your shoes.”

I glanced at my white sneakers, finding dribbles of fresh blood staining them. “Huh, I’m afraid the story behind that is confidential.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“So it’s not from the massacred roses bleeding all over your lawn?”

My mouth popped open, then slammed closed. When in doubt, observe your right to the fifth amendment.

“That’s okay, Cora. I can wait for your secrets.”

“Good luck with that.”

He smirked and retreated to usher me inside. I swiped at the side of my lips with the back of my hand. No drool. Outstanding—things were looking up.

“We’re eating in the kitchen,” he informed me as he crowded my back on the way down the hallway. Heat rolled off him in waves, sending little tingles of awareness along my spine.

The room opened up into a rustic kitchen, complete with exposed beams. I’d left some original paneling as features, including a two part stable door which separated the living area from the kitchen. He had the rear door propped open, allowing the early morning streaks of orange and gold to splatter across the tiled floor.

He indicated to the waist tall table set back into a nook with two stools. It was intimate. “Please, sit.” He turned and started the gas ring before sliding a frying pan onto it. He moved through the kitchen with an efficiency that spoke of countless hours of experience. Somehow, I’d expected him to be pampered and waited on.

“You cook,” I observed.

He glanced over his shoulder as he whisked a bowl of batter. “Breakfast would be a sad affair if I didn’t.”

I waved my hand. “I mean, you cook for yourself.”

“I like to know what’s going into my food.”

“Is that because you’re fussy?”

“No, it’s because I’m the most powerful shapeshifter in existence.” The batter hit the pan and sizzled, releasing a yummy savory smell.

“And that makes you a chef?”

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