Page 20 of Fangs for the Memories (Budapest Bites #1)
A s much as I hate to admit it to myself, with Ferenc in the room with me, I feel significantly better.
It can’t be because I feel safe with him. His suit is a mess, ripped in places, and he smells terrible, like he’s been digging around in an ancient tomb, but with his dark eyes looking into mine, his fingers on my skin, it seems like all the anxiety leaves my body.
There is just him…and me.
Which I need to shake off because, werewolf or not, I’m not interested in a rebound relationship. Mark hurt me more than enough for me to swear off men, or the male of any species, not to go there ever again.
A shame because Ferenc is truly a fine specimen. His gorgeous, handsome face studies mine, the shadow on his cheeks and chin darker now, with more of a scruff, his hair as unruly as ever, my fingers desperate to stroke through it, to feel his scalp under my touch.
But no. This is not for me. It can’t be. I don’t want a new romance, not when my old one, the one I never wanted, ended up in such public humiliation.
The interruption from what can only be described as an actual demon, all horns, tail, and wicked grin, doesn’t pull his gaze from mine.
It’s only when the scent of food, rich and meaty, hits me that I feel hungry and the spell, or whatever it was, is broken. Ferenc breaks away and collects the tray from next to the door, carrying it back to the bed and placing it down.
There is a large ornate china tureen, complete with a silver ladle, which he uses to scoop out the contents into two bowls before handing one to me along with a platter covered in thick slices of dark bread.
“Eat,” he exhorts. “Kornél makes the best goulash in all of Budapest.”
“Kornél. Is he the…?”
“Demon, yes.” Ferenc spoons some of the soup into his mouth, closing his eyes at the taste. “Kornél is a demon, but it turns out the damned also make great goulash, so I’m prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. That and he’s also a very good assassin, if you need that sort of service.”
I blow on a spoonful of the dark red liquid and carefully sip at it. The rich, earthy flavor of paprika bursts over my tongue along with meat and potato.
“Wow!” I swallow the rest in an instant. “That is delicious.” I dig in happily, using pieces of the dense bread to soak up the soup, and for a while we eat in silence, save for the clink of cutlery against porcelain and occasional sounds of enjoyment coming mostly from me.
I swirl the last of my bread around the bottom of my bowl to get the final drops of the soup into my mouth before placing it back on the tray.
“Good?” Ferenc queries.
I nod enthusiastically. I’m amazed at how revived I feel, despite falling asleep earlier, my emotions in tatters along with, it appears, my wardrobe.
But a little bit of goulash in the company of a werewolf and I feel better.
Ferenc picks up the tray and takes it out of the room. I shuffle back against the sumptuous headboard and hug my knees once again.
What am I going to do? I have my passport and a non-exchangeable plane ticket. No money. I am stuck here in Budapest for the next week and a half.
Ferenc returns, carrying a bottle and two crystal glasses. He’s removed his damaged suit jacket, and it appears he’s put on a fresh dark shirt. The door closes behind him, and he makes his way over to the bed with a steady predatory swagger. The mattress dips as he sits down.
“Whisky? You want some?” he asks
Usually I don’t bother with spirits if they’re not mixed into some sweet cocktail, but today has been a day.
“Yes,” I hear myself say. “What is it?”
“McCallan twelve years,” he responds, pouring a good measure of the amber liquid into each glass before putting the bottle on the floor.
“Twelve years old,” I respond.
He looks at me, blinking. I guess no one usually corrects a mafia boss. His eyelashes are long and luxurious, like his hair.
I shouldn’t be thinking about his eyelashes.
Instead I look down at the glass he hands me.
“McCallan, twelve years old ,” he says. “English is a silly language.”
I take a sip of the whisky. It’s strong, definitely, but has a delicate flavor I can’t help but appreciate.
“I’m not disagreeing. Your English is good though.”
“I went to school in England,” he responds.
“Werewolf school?”
“There are no werewolf schools that instill as much self-resilience and terror as an English public boarding school,” Ferenc says with a grimace. “And I didn’t shift until I was fifteen, so I got to stay longer.”
“So, you weren’t born a werewolf?” I take a bigger sip, enjoying the way the whisky warms my throat and my full stomach.
“Werewolves are werewolves, but we all come into our shifting abilities at different times.” Ferenc glares at his drink. “I was a late bloomer. I think that’s the English expression.” He looks at me with a mixture of pain and amusement. “I haven’t been to England for a long time.”
“That is the expression. But fifteen doesn’t seem all that old.”
“It is in werewolf terms, and I’ve been fighting back ever since,” he rasps, downing the remains of his glass and reaching to pour another, also topping up mine.
I should tell him no, especially after last night, but with all I’ve seen today, all I’ve lost, I’m beyond caring. I doubt things are going to look any better in the morning, so I may as well go with the flow.
“What did the vampire have to say?” I ask.
“Nothing much, the usual bluster and bullshit.” He swirls his glass. “Vampires are full of their own self-importance. They forget they stopped being a force the moment the humans thought they sparkled.”
I let out a mock gasp. “You mean they don’t sparkle?”
“Not unless you count the coffin dust as glitter.” Ferenc gives me his disarmingly handsome wolfish grin once again. “Which I wouldn’t.”
I like seeing him smile in this way. Yes, it’s predatory, something I don’t think he can help. But here, with me, I see his guard is down. The smile is more genuine than anything I’ve seen so far.
Ferenc swallows the remains of his whisky, pours himself another measure, and offers to top up my glass again.
I let him.
If it means I let the wolf in, then so be it.