Page 50

I could keep rain off you.

I stare at him long enough for his expression to shift into what I now recognize as stubborn sincerity. “You cannot personally replace architecture.”

His eyes narrow. I could try.

That makes me laugh so suddenly, I drop my keys. He watches me bend for them with an expression that should not make me as fond as it does, and I spend the rest of the walk thinking about the fact that he wants inside and has never once pushed for it.

That’s what gets me—not the jealousy or the possessive little pulses through the bond whenever I step through the door and close it between us. It’s the restraint. The way he stands outside the circle of porch light because I haven’t said yes. The way he waits, even when waiting clearly eats at him. He’s a creature who could tear the door off its hinges, but chooses to treat my cheap lock like sacred law.

The porch light clicks on automatically, and I feel the small pulse of irritation move through the bond before he smooths it out. Mine, the feeling says anyway, soft and jealous and embarrassingly sincere.

After saying goodnight, I stop halfway up the steps and turn back to look at him.

He’s standing just inside the tree line tonight, hands in his pockets, the pale lines of his face and throat cut by porch light and shadow, hair moving slightly in the breeze. He looks, absurdly, almost normal until you really look at him.

He also looks like something my life had been missing without telling me.

“Onyx.”

His full attention settles on me instantly. Yes.

I hesitate, which is annoying because I’m already doing this. “Do you want to come in?”

18

Lucas

For one long second, I think maybe he didn’t understand what I asked.

Then the silence fills with a feeling so huge, startled, and carefully held that it steals my breath. Not triumph or even possessive satisfaction. A feeling much softer and somehow more dangerous. Want, yes, but wrapped in disbelief and cautious hope—the emotional equivalent of a big animal lifting its head from a stream because it’s not sure it heard right.

Inside? he asks, and his tone is so carefully neutral that I almost laugh.

“Yes, inside,” I say, leaning one shoulder against the porch post. “You’ve been glaring at my house for days. I figure maybe it’s time to stop making the poor thing feel insecure.”

His gaze flicks to the cabin, then back to me. His attention on me always feels like standing in sunlight after years of shade—too much and exactly enough. The dry humor returns first, because of course it does.

The house is the insecure one, he sends, and I snort. Then I watch him flex his hand once. Are you sure?

“Yeah, I’m sure. I want you in my house, Onyx.” I straighten a little and let the answer sit in the air between us without a joke or teasing coloring it.

The warmth that moves through the bond then is unlike anything I’ve felt from him when he steps out of the trees. Only a few yards of grass separate where he usually stops and the porch, but the shift in him as he crosses it is palpable.

He doesn’t rush. If anything, he moves like he’s approaching a wild animal, which is ridiculous considering he is the wild animal in this situation. He stops outside the open door and studies the frame, the hinges, the small entryway, the kitchen light spilling across the floorboards.

I cross my arms and smile. “You don’t have to make it ceremonial, you know.”

His eyes flick to me. It is.

My throat goes tight, and the smile slips from my lips. “Yeah… I suppose it is.”

When he steps over the threshold, the bond opens with such wonder that I have to grip the doorknob when I swing the door shut. Onyx stands in my entryway as if he has just crossed into another world. His gaze moves everywhere at once without his head turning much.

He looks too large for this cabin, even in human form. Too old for the cheap laminate counters and humming refrigerator. Too wild for the rug I bought in town because the floor was too cold in the mornings. He belongs under the trees, beside creek stone and moonlight, not standing barefoot on my scuffed floorboards.

Your den is small, he says, and ruins the moment. I bite my lip hard, trying to push down the sarcasm and the laugh bubbling up. He turns those bright eyes on me. This is not an insult; it is a fact. Where do you run if danger enters?

I lose the battle and laugh, walking toward the kitchen. “Most people don’t design houses around escape routes from supernatural predators.”