Page 6 of Fangs for the Memories (Budapest Bites #1)

T he moment I entered the bar, my head began to swim with a scent the likes of which I’ve never experienced.

For the entire afternoon, I’ve been doing my best to avoid the Roka pack, making excuses every time my mother approached me, saying I was inspecting the hotel for purchase.

Once or twice I caught sight of Apa Roka, the old wolf grinning at me before I managed to disappear down another passage.

He wants in on our pack, and marrying me off to his youngest daughter, a she-wolf I’ve been told is very pretty but also very meek and docile, is the way he wants to do it.

Not a chance. The last thing I need is more trouble. Max is bad enough and he’s related to me. A whole other pack coming under my control is not required.

Further, for this whole day, I’ve felt hopelessly uneasy, as if there was something poking at the back of my mind.

But once in the bar, all of that uneasiness slips away, as if I’m shedding my coat.

It’s when I see her, sat on her own. Her long brown hair hangs down her back, almost to her waist, her slim hand wrapped around the stem of a nearly empty wine glass.

She is human, not a werewolf, but something rages inside me at the sight of her.

Something primal, something needy, something which wants to roar mine .

Once I am beside her, it’s as if I’ve been drinking all the wine she has.

Too much wine, which I can just about scent over her own particular perfume.

“I suspect you have probably had more than enough for tonight,” I reply to her suggestion I buy her a drink and look over at the bar keeper, who holds up a single finger before pointing at the cooler in front of her. “And have you eaten?”

“I’m not hungry,” she says with the sudden belligerence of someone who has drunk a bottle of wine on an empty stomach. “And anyway, who are you? My mother? I told you I didn’t want company.”

“I may not be your mother, but I would like to make sure you are safe in my city.”

Her nose scrunches up slightly.

“You are definitely not my mother.” She gently runs her hand over the lapel of my suit. “Nice,” she says.

“Thank you,” I respond.

“Koszonom.” She smiles. “Armani bespoke? Am I right?”

“You know clothing.”

“I knew clothing.” She removes her hand, and instantly I want to grab hold of it, to feel her skin against mine, to make sure she never gets away. “Not anymore.”

The sadness in her voice is something else. It rips me up from the guts outwards. I feel the growl before I hear it.

“Who hurt you?”

Her eyes, beautiful bright, bright blue, fly to meet mine.

“No one,” she says firmly. “None of your business.” She grabs at her bag, sliding off the bar stool and nearly onto the floor. “Oops.” She giggles.

The sound hits me like a set of claws to the chest, flipping my heart in a way which shouldn’t be possible. Without even thinking, I steady her.

“Are you staying here? Or do I need to call you a taxi?”

“M’staying here,” she mumbles, looking at the empty glass on the counter before going back to her purse.

I spot a large key.

“Then let me help you to your room.”

She laughs, but this time it’s much harsher. “Oh, you think I’ve not heard that one before?” She pats me on my chest. “Try another, buddy.”

“My name is not buddy, it’s Ferenc. Ferenc Kóbor.”

I haven’t let go of her elbow. Her unsteady gaze is on mine once again.

“I won’t hurt you, I promise,” I say.

“Well then, Ferenc.” She pronounces my name flawlessly down to the ’ts’ at the end. “I can make my own way to my room, but you are welcome to escort me to the elevator.”

The way she says it, all British and imperious, makes me smile without even meaning to.

“Although, if you are going to continue to look as if you’re going to eat me, I may well rethink my invitation,” she says, pushing away from the bar but not attempting to remove herself from my grip.

“I won’t eat you,” I respond. “As long as I know your name.”

She gives me a sharp, focussed look, at odds with her faltering steps.

“It’s…Grace,” she replies.

“Grace?”

“Just Grace. That’s all you get for tonight.”

I make sure she doesn’t fall, indicating to the barman to put the wine she’s been drinking on my account, and gently help her through the lobby to the elevator, ensuring she is kept from any prying eyes.

I press the button as she leans gently against me.

“You smell good,” she says. I feel her body slipping, and without a word, I gently tip her into my arms as the doors open, and I step inside. “What are you doing?” she adds without any real concern.

“I’m carrying you before you fall down. Which floor?”

“Top. I’m in the…” She flaps a hand weakly. “Something suite? Someone’s name, I think?”

“Maximilian Schell?”

“That’s the one. You’re good at this.” She sighs.

“At what?”

“Finding broken butterflies to mend,” she responds.

“I didn’t know you were broken, but I will track down whoever broke you and kill them.” I growl.

She says nothing, her eyes closed, long eyelashes sweeping her cheeks which are speckled with little brown dots. Her breath comes in long, slow sighs.

What have I got myself into?

At the door to her suite, I juggle her into one arm while I go through her purse to extract the key. She’s as light as a feather, but then all humans are to me.

Inside, the huge suite seems far too large for this one tiny slip of a female, but from the scent in the room, she is clearly the only one staying here. I take her over to the bed and place her on it, sitting next to her to take off her boots before slipping her under the covers.

Her phone slides out from under the pillow. The screen is filled with notifications. For a moment, I pause, considering whether to pry or not.

Instead I place it on the nightstand where she can see it if she wants it.

I will get to the bottom of my little mystery. This little human who smells like she was sent by the gods, who feels like the softest of silk, and who piques all of me far more than any female has ever done.

And I am absolutely certain this will be the last night Grace sleeps alone.