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Chapter 14

Horace

S he is the one.

Not in the maybe sense. Not in the wow, I really like her sense.

No. Carina is it .

My fated mate.

I guess that time I saw her in the pizzeria I was either too stunned or my senses dulled by the fragrant aroma in the air to pick up on it.

But one sniff of her delectable scent tonight and there is no question.

She is mine.

The only woman in the entire universe—make that multiverse —who is meant to be mine.

My heart is pounding, slamming against my ribs like the heavy tattoo of a stadium drum line, relentless and deafening.

My Bear is restless—pawing at the ground in the metaphysical realm, pacing like a caged animal, waiting, demanding that I do something, that I claim her the way nature intended.

But I can’t just do that.

Not yet.

Because she doesn’t know.

Doesn’t know what I am.

Doesn’t know that my soul recognized her before my brain did, before logic had a say, before reason could talk me out of it.

And fuck , I don’t even care.

Because right now?

She laughs—light, melodic, perfect —at some offhand comment I barely remember making.

And I am so damn thrilled that I’m the one responsible for it, I don’t even care if I wasn’t trying to be funny.

Because she is.

She’s so sweet. So good. So kind.

She’s honest in a way most people pretend to be.

And I love everything about her—even though I know it is way too soon for that word to be lurking in my thoughts like a hungry, er , Bear.

But it’s there, anyway.

It’s there, and it’s real, and it’s only growing stronger.

Uncle Uzzi is a certified genius.

Without even trying, the old Witch matchmaker extraordinaire somehow found my fated mate.

Well.

Technically, we found her together—when we had lunch at Pizza Girls the first time I met the old man.

But who’s counting?

That was his idea, wasn’t it?

To have lunch? To discuss our business?

Yeah. No doubt about it.

The man is awesome.

But not as awesome as her.

Not as breathtaking.

Not as utterly, mind-wreckingly, earth-shatteringly perfect as Carina.

We’ve spent the last two hours plowing through every single course they brought out.

Everything from succulent, garlic-rubbed lamb to juicy, spice-crusted sausage, to the showstopper itself—picanha, smoky and glistening with sea salt.

And finally—ten minutes ago—another round of what I deemed to be her favorite food tonight. Cinnamon-dusted grilled pineapple.

A ridiculous, sticky-sweet, impossibly perfect ending to a meal that somehow felt like a date and a war and a revelation all at once.

The waiter approaches, and I barely acknowledge him, handing over my black credit card with a flick of my wrist.

Yes. That one.

The one that says money is no object.

The one that says I could buy this entire restaurant if I wanted to, but tonight, the only thing I care about is the woman sitting across from me.

And now—now I’m left with one burning question.

How the hell do I ask her back to my place without scaring her off?

Because I don’t just want to take her home.

I want her to never leave.

“Oh, can I Venmo you for my half?” she asks, and I grin.

“No,” I reply automatically.

“No?”

“Nope. I told you, it’s my pleasure, Sweetheart.”

She shakes her head, but gives in.

Good girl.

Fuck. I can picture calling her that while she’s naked on my bed and spread out before me like a veritable feast for my senses.

If there is one woman who could capture all my attention, I know it’s her.

Already I’m hard and eager beneath my slacks, but I won’t push her into anything too fast.

I can scent her interest, and I know she wants me, too.

Thank the Fates.

But she is a normal, and I have to be careful, cautious, tender.

She holds all the cards here.

“Did you drive?” I ask, and I fucking hope not, because I really want her to come home with me.

“No, I took an Uber,” she says, and crinkles her nose.

A growl rolls through my chest before I can stop it.

It surprises even me— low, primal, possessive as hell.

Carina blinks, glancing up at me, but I don’t even try to hide it.

Because I’m mad.

Because the thought of her getting into a car with a stranger— some random Uber driver —doesn’t sit right.

Not even a little bit.

She shouldn’t do that.

She shouldn’t have to trust some faceless stranger when she could— should —trust me .

People can be creepy, the world is full of predators, and she’s too good, too sweet, too trusting—and I want her to be safe.

I want to be the one who makes sure she gets where she needs to go.

I want to be the one who’s there, who protects her, who keeps her close.

I clench my jaw as she reaches for her phone, muttering, “In fact, I should probably order one now?—”

No.

Absolutely not.

Before I even think about it, my hand drops over hers, palm covering her fingers, holding her in place.

Warm.

Soft.

Mine.

Her breath hitches, and I don’t miss the way her pulse jumps beneath her skin.

I swallow down the animal urge to press my mouth to it, to feel it against my tongue, to mark her as mine in the way that feels so natural, so inevitable.

Instead, I keep my voice low, smooth, laced with something dangerous and tempting all at once.

“I was hoping you’d come back to my place for dessert.”

Her lips part slightly, surprise flickering across her face—but not in a bad way.

More like intrigued .

More like interested .

She blinks once, twice. Then she bites her lower lip.

And now—now I’m dripping all over my boxers like a horny fucking cub.

Shit.

I exhale sharply, trying— failing —to rein myself in as she watches me like she knows exactly what she’s doing.

Then, with a slow, teasing smile, she murmurs, “Well, you just said the magic word, Mister.”

My chest tightens, my fingers flex, my Bear damn near loses his mind.

I arch a brow, my voice rougher than I intend.

“Yeah?”

She leans in, her hand still beneath mine, her body warm and close, and grins.

“Yeah.”

I want to beat my chest and crow like the cocky motherfucker I feel like right then.

Carina is gonna come home with me.