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My hand flies to my shoulder.

“Shit.”

Still there.

I stumble out of bed and make my way to the bathroom, where I twist sideways in front of the mirror.

Yep. Definitely still there.

Two distinct marks where Grimm Palermo sank his teeth into me in the middle of the most intense sexual experience of my entire thirty-six years on this earth.

Because apparently normal postcoital awkwardness wasn't enough for me.

Nope. I get magical biting.

Fantastic.

I stare at my reflection. Sometime after the sex and the biting and Grimm's horrified expression, I gathered he hadn't meant to do it.

At least, I think I gathered that.

Everything after that is fuzzy. Disturbingly fuzzy.

I remember Grimm looking terrified. I remember magic. I remember him touching my face.

Maybe.

I think we talked.

Probably.

But about what? No freaking clue.

There are entire sections of last night missing, like somebody took scissors to my memories and snipped out the important bits. Which seems less than ideal.

Especially considering biting is sacred for some supernaturals.

It's not like biting someone's shoulder because you got carried away with a cheeseburger.

For certain species, a bite means something.

Something permanent.

Something usually reserved for⁠—

Mates.

I stare at myself in the mirror.

“I'm not Grimm's mate.”

The words hurt.

Actually hurt.

Right beneath my ribs. Which is ridiculous.

I barely know the man. We've had one dinner. One bizarre encounter behind the Academy. And fine, one earth-shattering night together.