Page 59 of Marked By Feral Monsters

I do feel sore, but after crying, honestly, I feel amazing.

Nervous. Shaky. But amazing.

He keeps talking. "We'll get through the list. Don't worry, little mouse. I'll take care of you."

I don't know how I ended up on the couch with a minotaur taking care of me post-sex, casually going through my list of sexual interests, but something tells me it's about to be the best week of my life.

I feel warm and safe andalivein his arms.

Who knows, maybe when it's all over, we'll know enough about each other to make this a regular thing—him breaking in, force fucking me, slapping me around, then pouring me a glass of wine so we can watch some TV.

One could only hope for such a lover.

It's not the early morning light I'm used to, which is the first sign something's different.

It's late sun, the stream hitting low on my bedroom wall. I stretch, the second sign something's off, when my body aches as if I've run a marathon, then a triathlon, followed by one of those boot camp races in the mud.

All that is to say, I can barely move.

My limbs are heavy, but they wake as I stretch and roll, finding the sheets crumpled and cold beside me.

Zair is gone.

I let myself go through the emotions, with the same efficiency as everything else. I hired him; I was a job to him. Of course, he isn't here.

The logical side of my brain doesn't make my heart feel any less bruised. But I can't complain, not even a little. He gave me everything I asked for, and more. Zair took my body and mind places I didn't know I could reach.

My fingers touch my lips, and I find I'm smiling.

It's okay. It'll be okay. Maybe I can hire him again.

I shake my head, sighing, because I can't spend more time with Zair. It was one night—and most of the early morning hours this morning—and I'm already missing him so much.

There's no way I'd survive more time with him, only to wake up to a cold, empty bed.

With effort, I get up, slip on my slippers, grab my robe, and just as I'm covering my naked self, I step into the kitchen.

And there is Zair.

Shirtless.

Wearing my apron.

Cooking breakfast.

He glances up. His face is jarring at first. Brown fur, golden bull-ring nose. Long, sharp teeth.

Kind eyes. High cheekbones, expressive brows.

"The contents of your refrigerator are abysmal, mouse."

I let out a snort. It surprises me so much I slap a hand over my mouth. And then I'm laughing.

He chuckles too, but keeps stirring.

"Don't worry. I will fix this."

He says it with so much conviction, I wonder if he's talking about more than the sad state of my fridge.. I ask what he's cooking, not able to bring myself to ask what I really want to know—what he's still doing here, and how long can he stay?—because I really can't bear to hear the truth, that this is all a part of the job, that he's making sure I'm fed and cared for before he leaves.