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Standing out in sharp red relief from the rest of her, my eyes find that mark immediately, throat tightening with thirst.

Gods, what did I tell Ophelia? That it would make her wild?

I can certainly eat those words, because as wild as it might have made her when I gave it to her, it’s surely nothing compared to what the sight of it does to me now.

Entirely unable to help myself, I cup her damp mound, reveling in her gasp of pleasure and the little whimper of need that escapes the back of her throat when I press my palm more firmly against the mark and tease two fingers around her entrance.

“Not fair,” Ophelia groans, even as she presses closer and grinds her hips into my touch. “You don’t have any super-sensitive marks I can take advantage of.”

The comment is innocent enough, offered in teasing protest even as she continues to move on me, seeking more friction.

The mental alleyways it sends me down, however, are anything but.

Back to all those doors best left closed and locked, slightly ajar now, though I’d be hard pressed to determine when exactly they cracked open.

The thought of Ophelia leaving a mark on me makes arousal spike hard and heavy, my cock growing even stiffer where it’s pressed to her stomach.

If the two of us were to bond…

I stop the thought right there. Not only is it far too soon to consider such a thing, but do I even want to?

Nothing much has changed in the last seven years, nothing that would make me any more eager to tie myself to a bloodbound.

Nothing but the last few weeks and the woman before me, the slow revelation of all she is and all we might be together, the stirring of wants and hopes and dreams I thought had long gone dormant.

All bigger, more overwhelming questions than I should be considering here, now, still lost in the intoxicating heat and scent and pleasure of her.

Instead of examining it all any more closely, I reach out and turn Ophelia so she’s facing the shower wall, then hook a hand under one of her knees and draw it up so her foot rests on the shower’s bench seat. I wrap one hand in a gentle collar around her throat and turn her face toward mine, and lower the other back to her cunt—palm covering my mark, fingers delving into her slick folds to tease against her clit.

“When have I ever claimed to play fair, sweet Ophelia?” I murmur into the skin of her neck, fangs already seeking their point of entry.

A taste, just a taste. Something to tide me over until I have her in my bed again.

Because despite those looming, unanswerable questions, I already know Iwillhave Ophelia in my bed as long as she’s here in Boston. Damn the recklessness of it, damn whatever consequences might wait for us when this case inevitably ends. I could no sooner give her up now than I could stop myself from breathing.

“Fuck,” Ophelia curses as I notch myself at her entrance and push just inside. “Fuck, Cas. Please, I—”

Her words cut off on a low, fractured scream as I thrust into her, bury my fangs in her throat, press my fingers hard against her clit.

And then we both lose ourselves.

To the steam and the cascade, to the unimaginable pleasure of bodies and blood and the pulsing, undeniable magick between us.

Despite the bliss of the morning, it doesn’t take long for reality to intrude on our brief moment of sanctuary and peace.

We’ve just emerged from the bathroom when the sound of a phone vibrating cuts through the silence.

Across the room, Ophelia checks her cell and frowns.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask her what the message is, if it has anything to do with the case, but after last night, I’m not sure if I have any right.

“I believe I owe you an apology.”

Ophelia looks up from her phone. “For what?”

“For what Philippe said yesterday, regarding the two of us speaking. I want to apologize for not including you in that meeting. I should have.”

“It’s really none of my business what you—”