Page 22 of The Sacred Wolf

“Careful now,” I warned. “That’s Jayla’s future husband you’re talking about.”

He looked at me with such starstruck surprise that I hurried to assure him it was just an inside joke, which prompted him to ask if I had future husbands, and I abruptly buttoned my lips. The last thing I needed was him getting broody and jealous during any of my favorite movies. We fell into easy, teasing conversation after that, one that warmed my cheeks in spite of the late spring breeze. A new explanation for our mismatched fated status took root in my heart.

It didn’t exist.

He believed in it because he wanted to believe in it, because the movies had filled his head with romantic ideas that had no place in shifter society where most couples mated based on rank, bloodlines, or necessity. Love was rare, and usually an afterthought, but that had never set well with either of us. He just had the Alpha male privilege to bend reality to fit his fantasy. He hadn’t clocked me as a shifter at all during the movie, but later, when our eyes finally met after all the years he’d spent searching, and he recognized me as the woman from the theater… and a Bronx Alpha Heir… of course that felt like fate. I might have assumed the same if I’d known he was the man from the theater.

I had no idea what to do with this revelation. If we both earnestly cared for each other, then I wasn’t sure it even mattered. Let us be fated. What were the chances that anyone else would show up to make that claim and steal us away? And what were the actual laws around that? Would we have to break up? What if it happened after we had pups? Had that ever happened to anyone? Why was I even worrying about it when I still wasn’t going to formally mate with him, no matter how much he loved movies, until he adjusted his public attitude.

Thoughts of that night always left me confused. I’d been turned on in equal measure by his attractiveness and integrity, but that moment had meant so much more to him. At least, according to him it did. He claimed that that was the moment he knew I was his fated match. While I wasn’t in a hurry to mate and become a puppy-production machine, I sometimes wished I’d felt the same. It would have made life a lot easier.

Instead, it was frustrating. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to feel to know if he was my “fated”. No one could tell me anything besides, “You’ll know when you know it,” even Sebastian. It seemed like that must be the truth, though, because my lack of certainty about him versus his instantaneous commitment to me had convinced him I didn’t feel it.

What made me more nervous about the whole thing was how instant it had been for him. If I hadn’t experienced the same thing in that first instant, did that mean it would never happen? If I mated with him and never felt that for him, did it mean I might feel it for someone else later? And what happened then? Or what if I never felt it? Lots of shifters claim they never feel “fated”—the majority, in fact. Most make matches based on rank, bloodlines, and necessity, not of love or fate.

But when you’ve grown up without a mother because your father was so devoted to her that once she’d passed, he’d rather not have another wife or pup—after all, they had been fated—it was hard to want to settle for anything less. Yes, I’d been ready to do my duty and mate with Blaze… well, to be fair, I hadn’t been ready at all, but he’d been so kind with his offer to give me time that I’d warmed to the idea enough to think I would be ready one day.

And then Sebastian claimed me, rejected Kiana, all hell broke loose, and the rest was recent history. Which left me going in circles like a carousel about this every time he made my heart race, but not melt.

For now, I was happy to have the exploration of Manhattan as a distraction from that mental merry-go-round. I’d been cooped up in The Plaza for nearly a month, and I was drinking the city in like a wastrel from the desert would water from an oasis. Just walking up 5th Avenue was an otherworldly thrill, even though we were ostensibly sussing out to what extent the citizens were on edge, jumping at shadows that might be shifters. I didn’t see any outward signs that New York was on the verge of a potentially violent anti-shifter mob. The sidewalks teemed with the early rush hour hustle of workers headed home or to happy hour, heels tucked into purses and sneakers pounding the pavement. No one seemed to be jumping at shadows, although I felt like I’d seen a few people slip behind doorways or into alleys as we passed. I couldn’t point to anything specific though. Most of it just flutters of movement in my peripheral vision, leaving me with that odd, between-the-shoulders sense that something was off.

But it wasn’t enough for me to point it out to Sebastian, who seemed utterly relaxed. His jacket was thrown casually over his shoulder, where it swung from his index finger, glossy wingtips marking time at the Manhattanite clip. He was in his element, a young prince, hale and hearty—

I stopped dead with a squeal that on some level I wished I could take back, but I was too damned jazzed to worry about looking dorky. I pointed at the wedge-shaped building to our right, walking around to the front edge, which was insanely narrow. I’d never imagined it would look so odd in real life, but it did. More so, almost.

“This is the Daily Bugle! From Spider-Man!”

Sebastian cracked a too-cool-for-school grin. “What, that? Yeah. It’s called The Flatiron. You know they didn’t build it just for the movie, right?”

“And you know the Green Goblin doesn’t really fly around cutting tram lines, right?” I shot back, and then wondered if I’d gone too far.

He ducked his chin as I spun, ready to apologize. But the jaded New Yorker demeanor slipped as he grinned back at me, confirming the growing suspicion that he’d brought me here on purpose. I was tempted to ask if he’d really thought it necessary to feel the city’s vibe, or if he was just trying to impress me. I was also tempted to ask if his family owned this building, too, but I bit my tongue, just enjoying the moment.

“C’mon. Are you hungry?” He offered his hand. “I’m starving.”

“Always,” I answered, taking his hand, which was kind of sweaty, but I didn’t care.

He wove us between idling traffic to Madison Square Park, where we headed for the Shake Shack. The line wound around the black kiosk and down the sidewalk, but so did the aroma of fresh burgers and Shacksauce, and oh my Gods, I was starving. It was hard not to drool in anticipation, and I had to keep myself from ordering a double burger or a milkshake. Considering we’d decided to walk and eat—since open seating at Shake Shack was a rarer find than an open seat on the 5 train at rush hour—I settled on a single gargantuan burger and fries.

I was so busy stuffing my face that I didn’t notice the lights coming on in the buildings around us as we continued up 5th Avenue until I stopped dead again, dazzled by the structure I’d marveled at earlier that day from the tram.

I’d wanted to see it lit up…

The tiered, square sections of the Empire State building rose like an elaborate mating ceremony cake, topped by the futuristic spire and painted with soft white lighting against the velvety night sky. I half-gasped, half-choked, and then coughed as a piece of burger lodged in my throat.

My breath abruptly cut off, and my soda hit the sidewalk with a mighty splash. A second coughed tried to free my throat from its vicious captor, but all that came out was a sickly wheeze. I grabbed my stomach with my free hand.

Sebastian lunged behind me, wrapping his powerful arms around my middle, beginning to squeeze just as I coughed again. My throat opened. The errant bite of burger headed down the right pipe this time, and I sucked in a breath as big as the murderous burger had once been.

As I heaved, I realized Sebastian was pressed against me from behind, his hips against my ass, and his arms around me so tightly I could feel every muscle of his chest and abs against my back. My head had somehow nestled into his neck, and he’d tipped his down so his mouth was beside my ear.

I could feel his breath on my cheek. Also heaving. My body lit up like the Empire State building before us, and I was seized with the urge to spin in his arms and press into him, my mouth starving for his—

He pulled away, cool air rushing in where the heat had built between us.

“Sorry,” he said, his chest still rising and falling with his panting breath. “I thought you were choking.”

Between almost choking and throwing myself at him, I was panting, too. “I was, but… I got it.” I huffed. “Empire State got me.” I pointed.

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