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Perhaps it was a different kind of paranoia, one that thoroughly disliked the idea of a forty-five-pound hound running protection duty for a woman Brass would merrily step in front of a Gatling gun for.
The idea was only one of several that had kept him quiet while Molly, saint that she was, took her time savoring food he knew full well she would have devoured in four bites tops.
She was still holding her fucking hand out for him and all he could do was stare at it, hoping like hell whatever magic he sensed in her skin didn’t also come with a hefty dose of pity.
He’d had enough of that to last lifetimes.
Instead of dwelling on the present and future, Brass had spent the past several days away from Molly delving into the past—her past, specifically. With Chrome’s help, the two of them had pored through all they could find about Molly’s family history, which, as Molly had confirmed with her adoption story, was a whole lot of bupkis. He’d never been able to discover more about her birth parents before they died or, more troublingly, why her official birth had never been recorded in Latvia. Because of her scarce family history, Brass had no leads, be they magical or mortal, to chase down regarding her true background.
Without a clear map to follow, Brass had quickly begun to spiral. The longer he stayed away from Molly, the louder that pervasive cackling in his head grew. The tether leashing his curse had worn down to strings no thicker than shoelaces. Somewhere around the second day, he’d stopped eating entirely. Every crumb that touched his lips reminded him of the perfection he’d last tasted between Molly’s thighs and the magic she somehow held over him.
A magic that both soothed his curse and riled his soul.
After he’d incinerated three trays of food and burned through every round of ammo in the armory before melting the firearms soon after, Brass had gone to Iron and Chrome begging to be lashed down in the pit of the mountain where he could wreak his curse’s fiery destruction in peace.
It was Rhode’s suggestion they’d followed instead.
They kicked him out with a warning that if he didn’t return to Molly to ease his beast while they searched for a cure, they’d find a way to bring her to him, whether or not she went willingly.
It was as final a resort as any of them were prepared to make, which only served to highlight just how little time he had left until the solstice.
Fuck.
Molly’s footsteps slowed as they approached the restaurant. Brass hung back a good distance, not assuming for one moment he was welcomed into the place, not after how he’d left her.
And he was right. She’d unlocked the front door and went inside without so much as a backward glance.
The rope she’d offered him had officially been reeled back in.
Brass scrubbed a hand over his chin, wincing at the days-long growth that abraded his palm and just how much he had let everything tumble out of control. His hygiene, his curse, his family, his fate . . .
His woman.
Blinking away the thought, he turned to go, not missing for one second the smug look on the hound’s face and how Brass had incorrectly assumed that animals were immune to pettiness.
Yet another thing he was wrong about.
“Here you go. Eat up! There’s plenty more where that came from, though we should probably keep this in the alley and not near the main entrance. Lord knows I’ve got enough people watching this place, and I don’t need any more unwanted drama.” Molly bustled out of the front door. In two hands, she held stainless steel mixing bowls, one filled with water and the other filled with—Brass sniffed—was that bratwurst?
Intrigued, though still not invited, he followed Molly and the dog around to the alley, well aware of just how much he resembled the stray cat she always seemed to think of him as. Even though she was angry at him and despite the silence between them, just being near her again made his soul . . . happy. Sated. And damn if that wasn’t the precise drug he needed after five days of hell.
Molly tucked the bowls behind the dumpster, and the happy hound got to work eating her little heart out, shaking her slim tail in a rhythm that matched her obvious joy.
When Molly went back inside, Brass braced for the harsh metal clang the back door always made when it sealed shut. Instead, a dull thud echoed through the alley. Not metal. Wood.
A door stopper had been shoved between the door and the doorjamb.
He paused, staring at the intentionally placed block of wood. It was as much of an invitation as he’d be lucky to get, and they both knew it.
Urged by his fire and no small amount of desperation, he surged toward the door. With a quiet kick, he’d cleared the wood and shut himself inside.
Chapter 20
Birchwood and brown sugar were the first scents to assault him. Maple and molasses quickly followed suit, drawing him farther down the hall into the kitchen, where he was promptly and thoroughly overcome with a new type of ambrosia.
Massive stainless steel pots stood sentinel on the commercial range and were lit to life by sure flames that never faltered in their purpose. He’d take his job seriously too if he was in charge of whatever heaven was in there that could make his mouth water from fifty paces and keep pulling him in.
Just what kind of siren soup was this woman cooking?
