Page 16 of Trusting Her Mate

Yes. Hell, yes. She pushes herself off my bed, all slow and smug, and the mattress creaks in protest. I jerk my gaze off her legs, fists tight at my sides.

Out in the main room, I stalk to the kitchen, yanking open cupboards that don’t need checking and setting a mug down harder than I mean to. Her boots scuff the floor. She hovers near the couch, fingers twitching like she might grab for her bag again. Her eyes—sharp and restless, heavy on my back—prickle under my skin.

I turn the kettle on and lean against the counter, arms crossed and jaw tight. The walls feel smaller, the air thicker. Every time she moves, it’s like the room tilts. I focus on the hiss of water, the scrape of ceramic, anything but the fact that she’s here, her scent flooding my space, everything off kilter.

The silence drags out. I want to fill it, but she beats me to it.

“So, do you often rescue females from terrible decisions, or am I your first?”

I set the kettle on the stove. “You’re not rescued yet.”

She’s a smartass. I like it, and I hate that I like it. The banter keeps coming, and I throw it back—blunt, not heroic, just honest. She drifts to my maps, fingers tracing the lines, poking at every boundary.

“Are all Katu males this literal?”

“No.” I cross my arms.

I do it too much around her, maybe to keep my hands in check. Or maybe I want her to notice. Fuck. Get it together.

I change the subject. “Why me? At the gate. Why did you pick me?”

She won’t meet my eyes, so I stare until she cracks.

Her answer is bullshit. “You were closest.”

She’s lying. I know it. I don’t know why it matters so much, but it does. I want to know what she sees when she looks at me. I want her to say it. Out loud. No more hiding.

“I was across the damn clearing,” I remind her.

She shrugs. “Spiritually, you were closer.”

I snort. “Bullshit.”

Her mouth opens, then closes, like she almost says something real. Instead, she covers with a joke. “I figured you’d be hard to murder.”

I almost smile, but it pisses me off that she won’t just say what she means.

“It’s a useful trait in a fake mate,” she says.

I roll my eyes. “Glad my murder resistance appealed.”

“It was your strongest quality at the time.”

“And now?” I shouldn’t ask, but I do. I want her to say it’s my hands, my voice, anything but this endless, awkward banter.

She dodges again. “The cabin has running water.”

Christ. I almost laugh. I need to get a grip. My chest twists, stupid and sharp.

The kettle starts to hiss. I turn away first, and I can breathe again. I make tea. Not coffee. Tea. Something herbal and earthy. I place a mug on the small kitchen table, then set honey beside it.

She glances at me. “For me?”

“You look like you’re about to vibrate out of your skin.”

She snorts. “That’s just my personality.”

“It’s chamomile,” I say.