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“Quite the cave,” I observed, leaning against the door frame as he pulled back a white comforter.
“When my head hits the pillow, I want to sleep. No tossing or turning." With a grin to rival his wolf form, he paused, one hand on a plush navy throw. “Well, maybe some, present company excluded.”
“You bring company to this dust pit?”
“Your raggedy cat and I can count on one paw the number of people we’d willingly allow into our home, however; I receive enough invitations without having to host.”
“Gross.”
“What can I say? I’m an animal.” He struggled to look at me with a straight face. “If I’m not mistaken, you invited me tonight.”
“To dinner.”
“A ruse,” he said dismissively, stripping the sheets. “Tonight’s master plan involved you, me, and a compromising position.”
My face might’ve turned a brighter scarlet than my dress, however, the mental image of shredding skin and fangs sinking into undead torsos served as effective blush control. “This may be a four letter night, Caelan, but I don’t have any more to give. You win. I admit Cal's plan was stupid, but I’m attracted to you so I hopped along for the ride. I am as bad as the date you rescued me from. Happy?”
“Yes.” He was not a humble victor. “Can’t blame you, Miss Davins. Reapers are a high-energy working breed. We require a couple hours of daily exercise.”
“It shows.”
“Thank you.” He tucked the sheets under his arm and stopped beside me in the doorway, making certain to meet my eyes. “I like teasing you, Marcy, but I hope you know I think real highly of you.”
“Oh!” I said, feeling as though a butterfly had tumbled down my throat. “I would say the same.”
“Glad to hear it.” His was a smile that lead to making more than butterflies. “I’ll grab the spare sheets. Once you're comfortable, I'm returning to the scene. What do you need: pillows, blankets? My house is yours. Whatever you do, please don't use my toothbrush.”
“Because that's so much worse than your skin sliding onto my floor.”
“Fun fact: werewolves are trained to bury or consume the remnants of their shift. The Vilkas orchard has thrived on decades of werefolk remains. Now, speaking of gross.” He gestured at my spattered attire.
I gestured right back.
With his permission, I swiped a shirt from his closet and jumped in his shower. He used the guest bath. When I'd emerged, clean everywhere but spirit, he was setting a glass of water on a nightstand.
“Drink,” he instructed as I brushed damp fingers through my hair. “May not halt the incoming headache, but it’ll keep you fresh around the gills.”
“Nothing stronger?” I asked, propping myself up against the headboard.
“Your stomach needs a break.”
“I don't know how your stomach is fine and dandy considering what you bit into. No, not what: who.”
“There’s advil in the nightstand.” He perched on the end of the bed, not uneasily, but without the earlier cheer. “Wolves, at least those of us with paws, use our mouths a lot. Remember, shedding skin means things taste, smell, and look different. Biting feels natural to those raised as werewolves.”
“You tore James apart.”
“Scattered bones are safer than well-assembled corpses.” He studied my face. “Marcy, have you ever killed before tonight?”
“You mean, besides spiders?" I pulled the sheets up and hugged my knees. “Hit a squirrel once. Felt the bump as my tire rolled over its head.”
“Far cry from a teenage boy.”
I took a sip of water. “Not sure how to live with myself.”
“The necromancer ended his life. You showed mercy to a boy who’d climbed into his coffin and shut the lid.”
“What if I hadn’t fired the gun? Maybe the dead wouldn’t have come.”
