Page 87 of Pistols & Peonies

“Okay, okay!” she pants between laughs. “You win!”

I don’t loosen my hold.

Instead, I shift my grip and turn her around to face me, pulling her flush against my chest. Her legs wrap around my waist without hesitation, arms sliding around my neck like it’s second nature. Her skin is cool against mine from the lake, but the heat building between us is anything but.

The water rocks gently around our bodies, holding us suspended, and I look into her eyes.

They’re so damn blue up close, rimmed faintly with silver, defiance still flickering even as her breathing slows. The air between us feels charged, like the second before lightning strikes.

My gaze drifts to her mouth.

Her lips part slightly in anticipation, and I lean in slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants to.

“You’re not gonna bite me again, are you?”

I freeze.

She remembers. Of course she does.

My jaw tightens as I pull back to look into her eyes again, brain replaying the moment I still can’t make sense of.

I don’t know why my canines descended last night. We’re already bonded– the impulse to mark shouldn’t have surged like that. And yet my wolf lunged forward with a possessive, primal need to reassert our claim.

It caught me completely off guard; unsettled me enough that I called Dr. Aspen on my way to the store this morning. He was all too eager to discuss it, calling the incident ‘highly unusual’ and ‘further proof of this theory’. Then he asked again to conduct testing on our bond, and I promptly hung up on him.

“Sorry about that,” I murmur.

Her nose wrinkles faintly. “What was up with that, anyways?”

“Don’t know,” I admit. “It’s never happened before. I called Dr. Aspen to ask, and he has a theory.”

“Let me guess,” she snorts. “He thinks we’re fated mates and wants to make us his lab rats?”

“Pretty much.”

She rolls her eyes. “If we’re fated, then fate has a weird sense of humor. We have literally nothing in common.”

“No shit,” I chuckle, shifting my grip on her waist. “My brother’s coming for dinner tonight,” I add, abruptly changing the subject.

Her brows lift. “You have a brother?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know that.” She shifts slightly in my hold, adjusting her position, but I keep her close. “What’s his name?”

“Whitaker.”

She smiles faintly. “Hot.”

I snort. For all the ribbing he endured on the playground about his name, I bet he’d just love to hear her say that.

“Do you have any other siblings?” she asks, cocking her head. “Parents?”

“Just the one brother,” I reply. “Our parents are gone.”

The shift in her expression is immediate, the teasing edge instantly gone. “How?”

I swallow thickly. It’s been a while since anyone’s asked me that. I’ve given the same answer countless times, but it never gets any easier.