Page 30 of Hunted Mate (Stalked Mates #1)

“They didn’t even start doing clinical trials on women by law until 1993,” I say. “So in a way, your father’s fucked-up secret lab is actually very progressive.”

“You make a joke out of everything,” he says.

“Yeah. I do. Because the alternative is going insane, and I already tried that when I was a teenager. I’ve decided not to do that again, if that’s cool with you or whatever.”

We are getting our stuff together as we talk, and I am so happy when we leave the suite, I want to run and click my heels together and do all sorts of gamboling and things.

I don’t, though, because Gray has a hand on the back of my neck.

It’s firm and his grip is tight and when he speaks it’s in this tight voice that strongly implies I will be in a whole world of trouble if I so much as put a toe out of line.

We get in the car, I sit in the passenger seat, and I try to do my best impression of someone who is definitely going to behave themselves.

I used to do this by default, without even thinking about it, but now I am having to do it on manual.

What did I used to do with my hands? Where do they go? On my lap? I guess.

“You can relax,” he says, starting the car.

“I can’t,” I say. “You have to know that I’m not going to cause you any trouble because you let me out of the horrible hotel room.”

“You are so incredibly spoiled,” he laughs. “That room was nicer than almost any place I have ever lived.”

“Your father’s house is very palatial.”

“I never lived there.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I was better off for not having much to do with him, and my mother was certainly happier.

He’s a bad man. Everyone loves him, but that’s because they get to imagine who he is.

And every time he’s evil, they get to pretend he’s doing it on their account.

So the worse he is, the more they love him because they assume he must love them.

But actually, he just loves himself, and doing whatever benefits him in the moment. ”

I listen to him, glad he’s talking to me about these things. I enjoyed threatening his dad and calling him names, but this provides more context, as well as shoring up my understanding of the family dynamics involved.

“Where’s your mom now?”

“Back in England,” Gray says. “She got married to a nice man who builds roads and she’s never been happier.”

“Was she a wolf too, or did you just get the gift or curse from your father?”

“My mom’s a normal human woman,” he says. “She’s nice. She bakes bread.”

“Good for her.”

We drive to the supermarket and I realize I am running out of time to convince him to let me come in with him.

“I know you said I had to stay here, but…”

“Just stay,” he sighs. “It’s going to make it so much easier and safer.”

“Letting me out of your sight is easier and safer?”

He puts his face in his hand for a moment before looking at me. “Callie,” he says. “If I leave this car, and you do anything, and I do mean anything other than just sit here and wait for me to come back, I swear to whatever deities you may have heard of, I will thrash you to within an inch of…”

“I just meant someone might bother me,” I say, pouting.

“Oh,” he says. “I thought you were threatening to be a problem.”

“I don’t have to threaten to be a problem. That would make things not very organic.”

“Stay here,” he says, unbuckling his seatbelt.

“Please, sir,” I whimper, clutching at his hand. “Let me buy oatmeal.”

Gray looks over at me, the muscle in his cheek twitching. “I’ll buy you oatmeal,” he says.

“I am an orphan,” I say, putting on a silly British accent. “And I want to choose my own oatmeal.”

“You are not poor,” he says.

“No. It’s the one thing I am not. I’m very lucky that way, I know. I shouldn’t even be referencing not having money. It’s a shitty thing to do.”

“You were trying to get oatmeal,” he says. “That excuses a lot of tone-deaf pleading.”

“It does?”

“When it’s just the two of us in the vehicle, sure,” he says.

And that’s how I get him to relent on not letting me out of the car. He takes me into the grocery store and we get snacks. I don’t actually want oatmeal. That was a misdirect. I want meat. A lot of raw meat. Lucky for me, they sell meat raw in stores.

“I was good, wasn’t I. Not a single felony or even a misdemeanor,” I say, quite pleased with myself when we are done. The grocery store felt like a very pedestrian amusement park. I’m always slightly stunned by how many choices there really are in places like that.

“You’re supposed to be good,” Gray says. “But yes, you approximated normal behavior.”

“Not like that one guy who wouldn’t stop screaming for an ice cream.”

“He was about three years old. So yeah, congratulations, you behaved better than a three-year-old.”

“Yes, I did,” I say, remaining proud of myself even in the face of scathing facts. “I am better than a three-year-old. He kind of sucked. Feel sorry for his mom. Feel sorry for his dad. Feel sorry for me for having to hear it.”

We’re on the move now, heading out toward the house in the country. Gray’s talked me into ordering clothes online instead of going shopping. I like to think I am reasonable that way. Relationships take compromise, and I am doing the compromise.

Gray glances over at me as I peel the plastic off a tray of sirloin steak and start gnawing on it.

“We did get napkins, didn’t we?” He says the words mildly.

“Sorry. It’s messy. But it’s also delicious. And they wouldn’t bring us raw meat in the hotel room. They said it was a liability. But the supermarket doesn’t care what I eat, and that’s what freedom means.”

“Is that what it means?”

“Yes.”

We don’t talk much after that, because I am trying to chew raw steak with teeth not designed for the purpose. I wish I had wolf teeth now. Some long, sharp canines and other -ines would be really useful at a time like this.

I’m quite content now, traveling with Gray, a belly full of meat, and the promise of something delightfully arcane happening to me on the horizon.

“You seem happy,” he notes.

“I am. I like moving around. Traveling, I guess, people call it.”

“That is what people call it,” he agrees. He’s eating a bierstick. I take one from the packet. I crave flesh right now. I kind of hope that goes away because I really don’t enjoy the idea of meat as much as I am enjoying the taste of it.

“Maybe we can travel when things settle down,” I suggest. “I can go to England with you and meet your mom.”

“You want to meet my mom?”

“Sure. I already met your dad, and that went great. I think he really likes me,” I say, collapsing into giggles.

“My god,” he groans.

“I bet your mom is nicer,” I say. “Most people are.”

“If we make it that far, and by that far, I mean through the full moon, we’ll set that up.”