“That fucking bitch! I’m going to kill her!” Brown waves flowing down her back, she rushes the dumpster near her and slams one booted foot into its side. It does nothing, but the move seems to soothe her, and she does it again. “Motherfuckers! I’ll kill all of them! How dare they?”
Okay, maybe not. Something tells me it’s hard to soothe that one once she’s worked up.
Her fires remain extinguished, a fact that surprises considering her current level of rage.
I’m hidden in a darker part of the loading dock, where the shadows help hide that I’m still naked.
Naked and improperly worked up. I should be traumatized, right? And maybe I am, yet that’s furthest from my mind as I watch her pacing off her frustration.
It’s her. Can’t fucking believe it, but it’s really her.
One of my favorite fantasies of her slams into my frontal lobe—she’s on my dark wood desk in my office, hair fanning out on the surface, legs spread while I lose myself in her taste.
What does her pussy actually look like?
Jesus, I shouldn’t be thinking about this right now.
She kicks the dumpster another time, proving to me what I already suspected; she has unbelievable mythical powers, but physically her strength is inferior to mine.
Holy shit, did I really land on my feet after jumping out that window as if it was nothing?
Yeah. I did. Just like I’m capable of running at supersonic speeds now.
Just like I possess the strength to tear people to shreds.
I stare off into space as I remember, the world receding to the background.
I’m a monster. A murdering, unnatural abomination.
Not only are werewolves a real thing—fucking werewolves!—but I’m one of them.
The truth gnaws at the tissues of my brain, eroding a little bit of my sanity at a time.
“Hey! You.” The witch—priestess—goddess—whatever entity she actually is rushes to me, pointing at my face. “You said I wasn’t ‘meant to kill you’. Why would you say such a thing? Other than desperation to live, of course.”
I stare at her, mute, chest racing. This close, her scent is overwhelming me. On top of strength, speed, the ability to morph into a huge dog, and heightened vision, my sense of smell has been growing stronger for the last few minutes. I managed to ignore the smells of this city on full blast, but her?
God, there’s no ignoring her.
Her lips part and the night lights glisten along her bottom one, drawing me in. She’s saying something, her mouth is moving, but I’m in a tunnel, my rushing blood the only thing I hear.
She steps into the shadows I’m hiding in and slaps my naked chest. “I asked you a question, creature.”
Fancy that. Her calling me a creature. Wonder if she is capable of seeing the irony in that.
Although, without her powers flaring, she seems normal. A little bit goth with her outfit, a little bit gypsy with the rings decorating the length of her fingers and the pendant resting on her chest—a golden Hamsa, if I’m not mistaken.
“Answer me or I swear, I’ll render you to ashes right here.” Sparks of fire come to life above her clawed, black nails.
“You can’t burn me, witch. Remember?” No idea where that response came from, or why I’m so certain she’s a real witch, other than this whispering in me. An indistinguishable voice gaining volume in the back of my mind.
My response only causes more of those flames to burst along her hands. She glares at me with a virulent hatred, as if I’ve personally done something to her, but that aforementioned voice tells me that it’s because of what I now am. What she is. Her kind abhors mine.
I think my kind is supposed to detest hers, too, yet when I look into her light eyes, I feel the exact opposite.
My entire life, I’ve never been drawn to anyone like this. It’s unhealthy.
As unnatural as everything else going on.
“Werewolf, I swear, I’m in a foul mood as it is—”
I smirk, amused by her cute, angry expression. “You don’t say.”
Her eyebrow twitches and fire bursts up the length of her arm.
I might be somewhat immune to those flames, but I can still feel the heat of them, and it fucking hurts. “I don’t know how I know. I mean, I dreamt of you ever since that night I made the deal—”
“You had dreams about me?” she asks incredulously.
“I’m guessing that’s not part of how this whole thing works?” That “thing” being the selling my soul scenario and her coming to collect it . . . or whatever purpose my death fulfills for her kind.
Ignoring my question, she backs away from my naked form, and thank God for that. One inch closer and she was going to notice how my dick is threatening to swell to full length, twitching like a hungry bastard in her direction.
Damn, she smells good enough to eat. Literally.
“So in these dreams, I didn’t kill you?”
I shake my head, and dispel the images in it. The ones where I have her high against one of these brick walls, legs over my shoulders, and I’m feasting on her cunt like a madman. “No, the dreams were similar to what occurred in the penthouse. Only a few differences. In them, you always threw that first burst of flames my way and I began to—to change.” I swallow the sudden lump of dread in my throat. “They always ended there.”
“So then how would you know I wasn’t going to kill you?”
“I don’t know! It was always just a feeling in me. One that haunted me the last decade, even though I didn’t think any of it was actually real.”
“You said I was meant to ‘own’ you. What the fuck does that mean?” she snaps.
“What the fuck does it sound like?” I snap back, oddly defensive at the vulnerable sensation in my chest.
“Desperation, as I said,” she mumbles with a shake of her head and turns away from me.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I ask, “Hey. What’s your name anyway?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yeah, actually. It does.” Whether I die by her hand or she becomes something more to me, I think I deserve to know her name at least.
Her eyes trail my form over her shoulder and I can’t shake the feeling that she’s somehow able to see every naked inch of me, even past the shadows I’m hiding in. “Why haven’t you dressed yourself, wolf?”
“Don’t call me that.” It defies tolerance even thinking about it too deeply. A part of me keeps expecting I’ll wake up any moment now, just like I did the night I had that crazy dream about the priestess and her motley gang of whatever-they-were dressed in all black.
But it turns out that wasn’t really a dream, was it? And the object of my decade-long obsession is sneering at me with those light eyes, a different shade than my own gray-green ones, seeming torn between ending me on the spot or enacting whatever revenge she’s plotting on her own people.
“Your name,” I repeat stubbornly, chin raised.
“You don’t need it.”
She’s so damned wrong about that. I’ve needed it since the first night I dreamt about her.
Her hand waves through the air and I jump as clothes manifest over me—the same outfit I was wearing before my entire world collapsed. White button down, black slacks, Dior shoes, and the David Yurman Revolution watch on my wrist.