Page 29 of Sire

I know this is right. I’ve felt it every moment in his presence;I belong with Sire.

And maybe this is the mark of my youth; I’m impatient. My lonely heart won’t survive a slow burn. Or maybe, I’ve been adrift my whole life, and he’s my shore. You don’t wait to save your life; you grab safety the moment you have it. Or maybe I want Sire so much, my stomach falls as he shakes his head.

“It can’t happen, Wren, and there are a dozen reasons why.” Pain creases the line cracking the already broken heart by his eye. “Sorry.”

“Fine,” I sigh. “Just don’t tell me I don’t know what I want. I heard what you did last night, twice, so don’t insult me and tell me you don’t want it, too.”

He doesn’t look mad, and I’m not angry, either. It’s odd. Honestly, it’s like neither one of us has the power to decide; it’s been decided for us. We belong together.

“What Iwantis on the next aisle.” He turns, walking away. “Right by the coffee, I want to find a filter for your mouth.”

But I wait by our cart.

Not embarrassed.

Not shy.

Not wrong, either.

I wait for him to turn around and smile. “What are you waiting for?”

Sweetly, I smile back. “You.”

He has to feel this. I know he does. He says it can’t happen when it already has. We’re already together.

He pulls up short, breathing like he’s silently praying on what to do next.

Then…

He beckons with his bandaged hand. “Come with me, Wren Chapel. God knows I want that, too.”

CHAPTER SIX

SIRE

This woman is givingme signs everywhere, desires I can’t handle, and dreams I never want to wake from.

But I do.

The sun hasn’t risen, but something startles me awake—a noise. From under the empty pillow beside mine, I grab my Glock.

With my gun held low, I open my bedroom door. Across the hallway alcove, I spot hers is closed, so I peek around the corner into my living room.

Who the fuck is in here?

The pendant lights over my kitchen island glow. I left them on in case Wren woke up. There’s a rustling by my front door. So help me God, if it’s one of my father’s soldiers with a note.

It draws me nearer…

My finger on the trigger…

My vision, tunneling…

The moment she steps into view, I heave an exhale, “Goddamn, it’s you.”

Wren looks my way, not even startled. “Of course, it’s me. I’m cooking you breakfast. Oh, and doing your laundry.”

No, she’s barefoot and wearing my shirt with her hair twisted in a messy bun, tendrils falling. It’s a ravishing sight that pisses me off.