hardest part of my night to this point. I lurked out in his hallway like a creep for a good five minutes until finally the door to seventeen-oh-five opened and the man himself leaned against the frame and crossed his arms over his chest, fixing a serious look on me.
“You know they call from downstairs when a guest arrives, right?”
“I—” My voice squeaked. Where had the massive lump in my throat come from? Trying again, I said, “I was on the list.”
His lips twitched, betraying the dark look he was trying to project. “I know. I made the list.”
That was all it took. I cleared the space between us in a heartbeat, launching into his arms and hugging him like he had just come off the boat after being away at war. He smelled like only Desmond could smell—clean like fresh linen and woodsy, of cedar, and faintly like sea salt. All that was missing was the taste of lime in my mouth, a sign of our soul-bond. Too bad Lucas had helped sever that tie forever.
The bond itself was still there, unbreakable, but the taste indicator was gone now. I still tasted it the way a memory can call up all sorts of weird sense responses. I wondered if he could still remember the sugary flavor he used to get from me.
It killed me, the curiosity of whether or not he missed me as much as I missed him.
His arms looped around me, tugging me close and expertly avoiding my hidden weapons on his way to threading long fingers through my curls, giving them a familiar, teasing tug. His nose grazed my collarbone, and in doing so the rough stubble of his cheek rubbed against my own smooth one.
“I missed you,” I whispered confessionally.
“Me too.” It was the reply I’d longed to hear, but the heavy sadness with which he said it didn’t strike me as altogether promising.
Desmond released me, easing me back down to the floor and brushing a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. He looked as sad as he’d sounded. I remained close, touching the spot on his chest where I knew there would be a small bullet scar. Werewolves can usually heal anything, but a silver bullet does permanent damage.
That bullet had had my name on it, not his.
He caught my hand and placed a gentle kiss on my fingers. I got the message. He didn’t want to talk about that, or acknowledge it. Not yet, anyway. Fair enough.
“Come in, let me show you around.”
Around his new house. The home he was making without me. I wanted to say no and insist he come back to our apartment. Instead I nodded and followed him through the open door.
His new living room could have held my entire basement suite with some wiggle room to spare. He was on a low-enough level to warrant a balcony, and the back wall of the apartment was all big windows and sliding glass doors. It looked like he had a barbeque and some lounge chairs outside, but the reflection of the interior lights made it hard to tell for sure.
There was a large, cozy-looking brown sectional couch in the living room facing a huge TV with a baseball game playing.
“Isn’t it a bit late for a game?” I teased.
“Yankees are in Seattle. Game just started, actually.” As if to illustrate the point, the announcer on TV made a joke about all the diehard Yankees fans who had to stay up late to watch West Coast games.
I knew few Yankees fans more diehard than Desmond. If there was a top five list of things Desmond loved most in life it would be his family, the pack, me, the Yankees and sex. I wasn’t sure if I ranked above the Yankees anymore.
“How do you feel about the Dodgers?” I asked, by way of segueing into the reason I’d come.
“National League?” His nose wrinkled up. “I’d become a Kansas City Royals fan before I started rooting for an NL team.” His jab at the expense of one of the worst American League teams wasn’t making this any easier.
“Don’t tell that to Lucas. He might get some ideas about sending you to Missouri instead.”
“Huh?” With a hand on the small of my back, he
“You know they call from downstairs when a guest arrives, right?”
“I—” My voice squeaked. Where had the massive lump in my throat come from? Trying again, I said, “I was on the list.”
His lips twitched, betraying the dark look he was trying to project. “I know. I made the list.”
That was all it took. I cleared the space between us in a heartbeat, launching into his arms and hugging him like he had just come off the boat after being away at war. He smelled like only Desmond could smell—clean like fresh linen and woodsy, of cedar, and faintly like sea salt. All that was missing was the taste of lime in my mouth, a sign of our soul-bond. Too bad Lucas had helped sever that tie forever.
The bond itself was still there, unbreakable, but the taste indicator was gone now. I still tasted it the way a memory can call up all sorts of weird sense responses. I wondered if he could still remember the sugary flavor he used to get from me.
It killed me, the curiosity of whether or not he missed me as much as I missed him.
His arms looped around me, tugging me close and expertly avoiding my hidden weapons on his way to threading long fingers through my curls, giving them a familiar, teasing tug. His nose grazed my collarbone, and in doing so the rough stubble of his cheek rubbed against my own smooth one.
“I missed you,” I whispered confessionally.
“Me too.” It was the reply I’d longed to hear, but the heavy sadness with which he said it didn’t strike me as altogether promising.
Desmond released me, easing me back down to the floor and brushing a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. He looked as sad as he’d sounded. I remained close, touching the spot on his chest where I knew there would be a small bullet scar. Werewolves can usually heal anything, but a silver bullet does permanent damage.
That bullet had had my name on it, not his.
He caught my hand and placed a gentle kiss on my fingers. I got the message. He didn’t want to talk about that, or acknowledge it. Not yet, anyway. Fair enough.
“Come in, let me show you around.”
Around his new house. The home he was making without me. I wanted to say no and insist he come back to our apartment. Instead I nodded and followed him through the open door.
His new living room could have held my entire basement suite with some wiggle room to spare. He was on a low-enough level to warrant a balcony, and the back wall of the apartment was all big windows and sliding glass doors. It looked like he had a barbeque and some lounge chairs outside, but the reflection of the interior lights made it hard to tell for sure.
There was a large, cozy-looking brown sectional couch in the living room facing a huge TV with a baseball game playing.
“Isn’t it a bit late for a game?” I teased.
“Yankees are in Seattle. Game just started, actually.” As if to illustrate the point, the announcer on TV made a joke about all the diehard Yankees fans who had to stay up late to watch West Coast games.
I knew few Yankees fans more diehard than Desmond. If there was a top five list of things Desmond loved most in life it would be his family, the pack, me, the Yankees and sex. I wasn’t sure if I ranked above the Yankees anymore.
“How do you feel about the Dodgers?” I asked, by way of segueing into the reason I’d come.
“National League?” His nose wrinkled up. “I’d become a Kansas City Royals fan before I started rooting for an NL team.” His jab at the expense of one of the worst American League teams wasn’t making this any easier.
“Don’t tell that to Lucas. He might get some ideas about sending you to Missouri instead.”
“Huh?” With a hand on the small of my back, he
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