Page 22

The first thing I notice the next morning is that I’m in Dorian’s bed, alone. His side of the mattress, where his body was last night as he pulled me into him, is cold. Nausea rushes through me and I sit up, head spinning, instantly regretting everything we did last night.

It’s still very early, the sun only barely coming in through the windows outside. When I glance to the left, I can see it just starting to peek through the mesas in the distance, washing over the red landscape in a golden ooze.

He didn’t even wake me up to say goodbye.

It had seemed so obvious last night that it was what we both wanted—and he said it had nothing to do with the heat, that he wanted me, that he had always wanted me—but couldn’t that have just been the circumstances talking?

I sit up in his bed and drop my head into my hands, taking deep, shuddering breaths. The only thing worse than never having Dorian would be to have him and lose him. For him to realize it was a mistake.

Or worse, for him to say that it was only sex for him, and nothing more.

My chest pangs with something like preemptive loneliness and I swallow through it, forcing myself to look up and take in the room.

Everything happened so quickly last night that I didn’t have a chance to properly see his room, and I do it now, letting my eyes adjust to the light, drinking everything in so I don’t have to deal with the reality that I’ve just woken up alone.

The bed I’m sitting in is at least a king, if not California king. It’s dressed with blankets and a duvet, all deep blue tones and gray tartan. Last night was the best night of sleep I’ve gotten since being here, which might have something to do with the way I sink right into the mattress, the material so soft and welcoming.

At the end of the bed is a small leather settee, and there are two dark oak tables on either side.

Directly opposite the bed is a large dresser, a painting hanging above it, and I realize with a start that the painting is of this town—the mesas rising up in formation, the rich reds and golden oranges, the way the blue and pink clouds contrast with the landscape.

Breathtaking.

The first time since being home that I’ve really remembered the beauty of this land.

And yet, even staring at the painting isn’t enough to calm the stirring in my chest, the deep sense of uneasiness that’s hovering around the edges. I think back to that day I spent talking with Beth, and how she’d talked about the warning signs of when the gift might show up.

Eventually, after enough time, I’ll be able to use it at will, search for information. But younger psychics usually just get visions or premonitions when they come to them, a circumstance of random chance that’s not usually very helpful.

And I’m noticing some of the warning signs now. A slight blurring of my vision around the edges. The very faint sense that I’m floating above myself. Until Beth put them into words, I had never been able to identify them.

I lie back against the pillows and hold my breath, preparing myself for the onslaught of a premonition, but then something breaks me out of it, so loud and jarring that I jolt up again, breath caught in my throat, trying to figure out what it is.

Some sort of alarm.

The fire alarm.

I might be feeling sorry for myself, but that doesn’t mean I want to burn to death in this house, alone. My survival instincts take over and I leap up, grabbing a random shirt from the floor and pulling it over my head.

When I dart out into the hallway, I can see the black smoke hovering on the landing below the stairs, and a burst of adrenaline rolls through me. I can’t believe this is actually happening—Dorian’s house is on fire.

I take the steps down as quickly as I can, pulling my shirt up over my nose, but then I hear something strange and look to my left, into the kitchen.

And there’s Dorian, with the screen door open, coughing and plugging in a fan to blow the smoke out. There he is, looking up at me, his eyes brightening as he does.

He glances quickly to the pan on the stove.

“Sorry,” he says, wincing charmingly. “Thought I could make you breakfast. Maybe I should leave the cooking to you, huh?”

And all at once, I feel like a complete idiot. Why, when I first realized he wasn’t in the bed with me, did I assume that meant he wanted nothing to do with me? I could have gotten out of bed and come down here, realized he was still here.

Trying to make me breakfast.

“What did you do ?” I laugh, stepping into the kitchen, the tile cool beneath my bare feet. In the pan on the stovetop is something charred and unrecognizable.

“I followed the recipe,” he says, gesturing to his phone on the counter. “But I must have had the heat up too high.”

I laugh and pick the offender up out of the pan with the spatula, listening to the dull clunk as it drops down into the metal again. When I glance to the side, I see the recipe he has pulled up is for French toast.

“Oh my ,” I laugh again, but when I turn around to make a joke about it, his eyes are on me intensely, and his pupils have gone big again. Swallowing, I take a step back, looking him up and down. “What?”

“You’re wearing my shirt,” he says, voice low. Then, a grin spreading over his face, he cocks his head at me. “Are you trying to tell me something, Kira?”

My stomach does a full somersault.

What could I be telling him by wearing his shirt—that I’m his, and his only? That’s always been true, and he should know that. From the moment I was born, I belonged to him. He’s mine, too—even if he didn’t want to admit it.

I know how the bond works. I know that all other women have been ruined for him. Even if he rejects me, that biological attraction won’t end.

His eyes darken, and he moves toward me, stopping when our clothes brush, when his breath fans out over my cheek. The scent of him is all around me, pooling in this room, flooding out from every one of his pores.

And it just makes one thing repeat, over and over in my mind.

Mine, mine, mine.

I’m not sure who moves first. All I know is that one second, I’m standing on my feet, and in the next, I’m off the floor and moving toward the kitchen island. Dorian sets me atop it and for a fraction of a moment, I’m thinking about how unsanitary it is—my bare ass on the granite—but that fizzles out quickly when his knuckle brushes against me, cool and bold.

“Oh,” the word slips out of me, and seems to spur him on, so he runs his fingers up and down my folds, his forehead falling against my shoulder, a muffled groan into my shirt at the feeling of it.

I’m already wet for him—of course I am. My heat makes me perpetually wet, and perpetually horny, but this is the worst it’s ever been. Having my mate close makes my body feel electric, alive.

My palms land behind me on the counter as he slides his other hand up my shirt, the heat and pressure of him almost already too much, my orgasm hovering just near the edges, bringing the room apart, the very fabric of this reality—

“Stop,” I gasp the word, realizing what’s about to happen, and Dorian stops, though the pained look on his face makes it clear that it’s the last thing on this planet that he wants to do.

“What?” he asks, breathless, and when I glance down through the sudden pounding in my head, I can see that he’s hard, the size of it pushing out against the material of his pants. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“I—” I squeeze my eyes shut, letting my face drop into my hands, the sudden pain of it red-hot and blinding. “It’s—it’s happening. A premonition.”

“What do you need?” his voice is edging away from pained, but I can still feel the lust there, under the surface. It can not be easy for him to respond to this while I’m in heat, my scent probably making his cock throb.

“Ice pack,” I manage, and the compounding pain in my head coupled with the aching need between my legs is so bittersweet that tears start to run down my cheeks. Dorian disappears for a moment, then returns with the ice pack.

He runs a thumb over my cheek, wiping away the tear, placing the cool compress on my forehead just as everything goes black.

The last thing I hear is his voice, right next to my ear, whispering, “Everything’s going to be okay, Kira. I’m right here.”