Page 31 of A Malicious Menagerie (Fangs & Fables #1)

The Kiss

O ver the next couple of weeks, I fall into an easy pattern.

First, I go to visit Chase and bring him dinner. He insists that I don’t have to keep feeding him and that his previous bland diet of frozen cow is satisfactory. But he’s also quick to snatch my offerings out of my hand and wolf them down… pun very much intended.

“It’s ridiculous,” Delia tells me one night as she licks a drop of spilled blood from her thumb, “but the silver thing is true. It does weaken me. Don’t ask me why, it makes no physiologic sense, but then again, does vampirism?”

While John continues to complain about his stolen yogurt, I don’t see Rory in the breakroom again, though he does make a point to come wave hello most nights when I enter his cage.

Knowing what’s actually happening to John’s stupid yogurt, I no longer get upset when John blames me for taking it.

Instead, I only smirk and let him think what he will.

The truth, as usual, is so much stranger than fiction.

* * *

“Are you sure about this?” I ask Chase nervously, sifting my fingers through his unruly dark hair. “I’ve never cut a man’s hair before.”

“Can’t be worse than it is now,” he reasons.

He’s sitting cross-legged in front of me in a pair of baggy, gray men’s sweatpants that I picked up at Walmart.

He was amused the first time I thrust them into his arms, and he pointed out that werewolves don’t have the same hang-ups over nudity that humans do.

I primly told him that I would feel more comfortable if he wore clothes, and that was the end of that argument.

True to his word, if it comes to my comfort or safety, Chase lets me call the shots, which certainly doesn’t help me with this unhealthy crush I’ve been nursing.

“You say that,” I grumble, my sweaty grip making it difficult to hold the scissors I dug out of the junk drawer in the breakroom, “but it can certainly be worse. Uneven. Half bald. A mullet.”

He snorts. “I think you’d actually have to try to give me a mullet.”

“Don’t give me so much credit.”

In addition to having no clue how to cut hair, the angle isn’t great either. With Chase sitting in front of me and me on my knees, my head is about level with his, which means that I have to reach up and lean in to get to the top of his head.

“Okay.” I take a deep breath before letting it gust out in one messy whoosh. “Okay. I’m going to do it.”

“Great,” Chase replies, voice brimming with barely contained laughter. When I still don’t move, he clears his throat. “You good?”

“So good.” Except my voice is so squeaky that there’s no way he believes me. Confidence, I think to myself. Be confident. And if that doesn’t work, fake confidence. “Alright. First cut.”

I start at the back of his head where his hair curls at his collar. Taking one silky curl between my fingers, I force myself to raise the scissors and cut it off. Snip.

“Huh,” I mumble, rubbing the soft strands between my fingertips.

“Huh, what?” Chase asks, turning to peer at me over his shoulder.

“It wasn’t as scary as I thought.”

He chuckles. “Keep going, then.”

Bolstered, I make a few more cuts, using my fingers as a guide the way I’ve seen real hairdressers do and pausing every few snips to make sure I’m keeping things even.

After a couple of minutes, I find a rhythm, and my mind starts to wander to other things—like his scent that brings to mind crystalline white snow on burdened pine boughs and the radiating warmth of his skin.

As far forward as I have to lean to reach him, my chest hovers dangerously close to his back, and I suck in a quiet breath every time my breasts accidentally brush against his firm muscles.

Cheeks hot, I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to wrap my arms around him from behind, nothing between us, just skin against skin.

Eventually, the back of his head is done, the hair as neat and even as I can make it. Willing down my radioactive blush, I tell him as calmly as I can manage, “I have to do the front, now.”

I shuffle around on my knees until I’m kneeling in front of him, my eyes fixed resolutely on his shaggy bangs. I can feel the hot, heavy weight of his gaze on my face, but I can’t bring myself to look at him. Instead, I raise my scissors and resume my task.

Still, it’s hard to concentrate when I can feel his golden gaze like a physical caress against my cheeks, my lips, the length of my throat, and then my chest that’s expanding with each too-rapid breath.

As close as we are, I can feel his warm breath ghosting against my neck, and I feel him lean an inch closer before he breathes in deeply.

Is he… smelling me? I wonder if I smell half as good to him as he does to me.

Can he smell my lavender laundry detergent?

My apple shampoo? Just how much better is his lupine sense of smell compared to mine?

By the time I’m done cutting the rest of his hair, my body is a topography of conflicting emotions.

Embarrassment, certainly, found in the scalding flush on my cheeks.

Excitement, in spades, evidenced by the flutter of wings in my stomach like canaries in a birdcage.

Arousal, definitely, manifesting in a sharp, urgent ache between my legs that rubbing my thighs together can’t quell.

Putting aside my shears, I carefully run my fingers through his short hair, marveling at how the strands glitter with a blue sheen in the light.

Without all the snarls and tangles, the texture reminds me more of how it feels to run my fingers up his muzzle and over the slope of his forehead as a wolf.

“Anna,” Chase rumbles, his voice low and meaningful, and I finally glance down to meet his eyes. His gaze is intent, his irises brimming with golden fire, and he reaches forward to cup my hips in his hands, his big palms completely eclipsing the jut of my hipbones.

“Done,” I blurt, removing my hands and leaning away.

He lets me retreat, but his gaze stays on mine. “You were going to do my beard, too,” he reminds me, and his voice is rough.

“Right,” I agree, looking at the battery-powered clippers I put to one side earlier. Steeling myself, I pick them up and flick the switch so the unit buzzes in my palm. “Let’s do it.”

Chase leans his head back, exposing his throat, and the motion is oddly vulnerable.

Careful not to catch his skin, I run the blades and guard up his neck and over his sharp jaw.

It doesn’t take long for us to be surrounded by short, bristly hairs, and I’m mesmerized as his face is revealed to me one swipe at a time.

He still has some stubble left—shaving him completely smooth seemed like it would be more trouble than it was worth—but the lighter covering highlights his chiseled jawline and pronounced cheekbones.

He looked untamed before, more like a wild man living off the grid, but now…

Now, he looks like a man I might see in a bar and desperately wish would buy me a drink even if I wasn’t brave enough to meet his eye.

“You okay?” Chase asks, his brow furrowing, and I realize I’ve been staring at him like a lunatic.

“Would you buy me a drink?” I blurt. He stares at me like I’ve grown another head. “Like, let’s say I walked into that dive bar outside Fairbanks,” I clarify, my face resembling Death Valley now. “Would you want to buy me a drink?”

Chase fights a grin before clearing his throat. “Yes, Anna,” he growls, the sound causing goosebumps to prick my arms. “I’d buy you a drink.”

And I have no thoughts left now, just white noise and instinct, as I lean forward and press my lips to his.

Several sensations bombard me at once. He breathes in sharply through his nose before kissing me back, his blunt fingers threading through my hair to cup my head and hold me against him.

The feeling of relief at finally doing something I’ve fantasized about a thousand times since I met him is dizzying, and I feel so fizzy and weightless that I might just float away.

His lips are soft, but the way he kisses me is not.

I gasp when his teeth nip my lower lip, but the sting reminds me of pinching myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.

As the sensation grounds me, I’ve never been so happy to be squarely in reality.

My gasp transforms into a moan when he pulls me against him, crushing my breasts to his broad, bare chest. I wrap my arms around his neck to pull him closer, closer , until I’m straddling his lap and pressed against him from lips to hips.

I’m seriously regretting those stupid sweatpants right now, and I grind down against him, wanting desperately to feel him where I’m aching and empty.

Chase jerks when I roll my hips against his, and he breaks the kiss with a low rumble. “Anna…” he warns, leaning away. His expression is closed off now, lips pressed in a firm line, and shit , how did I misread him so badly?

“I’m sorry,” I blurt, launching myself backward so quickly I nearly fall flat on my back. “So sorry. I mean… shit. ”

I need to get away, to put some space between us to set myself straight and nurse my broken heart. I scramble off his lap and stagger to my feet before scurrying toward the door.

“Anna,” Chase calls behind me. But I don’t stop, and I don’t look back. “Anna,” he says again, and then his hand is on my upper arm, bringing me to a gentle halt. Still, I can’t bring myself to look at him. “Hey,” he murmurs, his voice so kind that it makes tears spring to my eyes. “Talk to me. ”

“It’s nothing,” I lie, hastily dashing away those damning tears. “I obviously just thought there was something there that wasn’t. It’s okay, I’ll get over it.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and still, I refuse to meet his eyes, my gaze stuck resolutely on one sculpted collarbone. It’s so unfair that even his stupid collarbones are beautiful.