Page 119 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

“So am I.”

He shut the door firmly in the kitten’s face. A deeply offended meow sounded from the hallway.

I was still smiling when Jackson turned back to me.

“I can’t believe you’re jealous of a cat.”

“I’m jealous of anything that gets your attention.” The words came out low and completely serious.

Before I could answer, Jackson crossed the room in two strides, caught my waist, and pulled me against him. His mouth found mine, hard and possessive, the last edge of frustration still there.

Outside the door, Artemis meowed again, but I barely registered it.

Jackson kissed me harder. One hand slid beneath the back of my shirt, palm broad and hot against my spine, while the other tangled into my hair. He walked me backward until the backs of my knees hit the bed. I let myself fall, pulling him with me.

He came down over me, catching his weight on one forearm so he didn’t crush me. His mouth dragged slowly down my throat, teeth grazing my skin in a way that sent heat spiraling through me. My hands slid under the hem of his shirt, palms greedy against the hard lines of his back, shoving the fabric upward.

Jackson sat back just long enough to yank the shirt over his head and toss it aside. The sight of him hit me low in the stomach: broad shoulders, bare chest, that dark, hungry look in his eyes.

That was the last coherent thought I had for a while.

Much later, Jackson lay half on top of me, heavy and warm, his head tucked against my shoulder while my fingers moved lazily through the damp hair at the back of his neck.

The earlier tension had burned away. What was left felt softer. Sleepier.

My cat stretched lazily inside me, warm and content. The room had gone quiet. Artemis had finally given up his protests in the hallway.

For a while neither of us spoke. I listened to the steady rhythm of his breathing, felt the slow thump of his heartbeat against my chest.

“Harper.” His voice was rough, quiet.

“Mm.”

He shifted, lifting his head so he could look at me. His eyes were dark, serious, a little uncertain.

“I have to tell you something.” He took a slow breath. “I’ve been sitting on this for a while. Telling myself to wait. That there’d be a better time.”

I went still beneath him.

“I think you’re my mate.”

My heart stopped. “What?”

He didn’t look away. "I think you are."

My pulse hammered in my ears.

“No. That can’t be right. I would have felt it. I should have known.”

“Not always,” he said.

I shook my head, sitting up. “Jackson, that’s not how it works. Mates feel the pull. They know. It’s supposed to be obvious.”

He sat up too, facing me fully. "Usually. But not always."

I didn't like where this was going. “What are you saying?”

“I am saying there is something in your past you will not talk about,” he said gently. “Something that makes you carry a knife everywhere. Something that makes you flinch when someone moves too fast. Something that makes you sleep with your back to the wall.”