“But that’s the thing, Dom. I don’t think you are happy. I don’t think you’ve been happy in a long time. And I don’t like it.”
“Happiness isn’t always linked to whether or not you’re in a relationship.” Mating bonds could be a blessing, but they could also be a trap. Dominic’s parents had been trapped in a broken relationship, and his mother had been so desperate to escape that she’d walked out, condemning her own mate in the process. So yeah, the need to find his true mate had never nagged at Dominic. Even his wolf was in no rush to find her.
Dominic wasn’t stupid. He knew there was every chance he’d be as happy with his true mate as his pack mates were with theirs. But he also knew that he’d be a difficult partner. He’d find it hard to open up and bare his soul. He’d struggle to fully commit to something that he knew there would be no going back from . . . especially when it would make him feel suffocated and trapped.
With shallow relationships, there was no need to open up. But when it came to mating bonds, you had to give it everything you were. Dominic wasn’t sure he was ready for that. And if he couldn’t be sure that he was someone a female could fully trust, rely on, and care for, he had no business asking anything more from her than what he could give in return.
Dante lifted his hands, palms out. “All right, I’ll back off. But just keep in mind what I said, okay?”
Dominic made a noncommittal sound, and Dante rolled his eyes. Just then, Mila drew out her final note and the crowd went wild again, clapping and hooting. More than happy to distract himself from thoughts of his parents, Dominic turned his attention back to her.
Nursing his beer, he watched as she thanked her audience and then stalked off the stage, ass swaying provocatively. An ass he wouldn’t mind getting a firm grip on.
Moments later, she slipped through the door that led backstage and sort of . . . flowed toward the bar, as light and fluid as music. People waved at her and shouted out compliments, but she didn’t break stride as she cast them each a smile. He got the sense that she didn’t relish the attention but didn’t find it uncomfortable either.
Reaching the bar, she slipped onto a stool. “Water, please, Mads.”
Damn if that sultry voice didn’t slide down Dominic’s spine. His pack mate, Frankie, spoke in a low-pitched, smoky rasp, but Mila’s voice was a scratchy, gravelly, dirty kind of smoky that was almost hypnotic and made a man think of sin.
“You were great up there,” Madisyn told her as she handed her a bottle. “But then, you always are.”
“We should do a duet,” said Mila. “Don’t even lie and say you can’t sing for shit. I know you can.”
The barmaid shook her head madly. “That would gain me attention. Attention leads to ‘fuss.’ You know I loathe ‘fuss.’”
With a snicker, Mila unscrewed the cap from her bottle and took a swig. “Needed that.”
As if feeling Dominic’s gaze, Mila looked at him. Her direct stare was like a punch to the gut. There were shadows in those eyes. A soul-deep loneliness he could relate to. But there was also pure iron. Whatever had put those shadows in her eyes wouldn’t break her.
Another female might have, at the very least, nodded at him in greeting. Not this female. She didn’t smile. Didn’t frown. Didn’t even change expression. There was no feminine appreciation in her eyes at all. Then, her voice dry as a bone, she said, “No sense in staring. You can’t afford me.” She looked away, dismissing him.
Dominic smiled.
Damn, the wolf was just . . . delicious. A salivating, tantalizing signature dish dusted with hotness, laced with sheer masculinity, covered in self-assurance, and topped with a sprinkle of raw charisma. Mila couldn’t help wanting to savor every bite.
She’d never spoken to him before, but Mila had seen him from afar plenty of times at the bars and nightclubs she frequented. She’d always referred to him as “GQ” in her head. Dangerously compelling and loaded with sexual energy, he was an expert at making girls part with their panties. Everything about him—his killer smile, his perfectly sculpted body, and his smooth-as-honey voice—made you think of sex.
Any female with a pulse would want to spear her fingers through that short blond hair that made Mila think of spun gold. Any female would imagine licking the taut, tanned skin that covered all that hard, honed muscle. His powder-blue eyes were as clear as water and held a hint of infectious mischief, but there was also an almost imperceptible glimmer of shrewdness. She’d bet the guy was nowhere near as harmless as he liked to appear.
Mila had always admired the personal power he wielded. The moment he walked into a room—moving with the swaggering, confident gait of someone who knew his own appeal and would make no bones about exploiting it—people looked at him. Watched him. It wasn’t just his model looks. It was how he moved. Fluidly. Deliberately. At perfect ease with himself. Like everything was natural and effortless.
He never had to work the room. No, he just found himself a seat, and people flocked to him like bees to honey. A master at social Tae Kwon Do, he initiated conversation with total ease and seemed to both enliven and draw energy from the crowd.
Everyone loved him. Both men and women flirted shamelessly with him, and he took it all in stride. But even as he chatted and laughed, he was always alert and vigilant; his gaze often swept his surroundings, processing every little detail.
She had no idea why said gaze had landed on her. She’d seen the type of girl he went for—curvy, blonde, sultry. Mila was none of those things. Well, something had caught his roaming eye. Oh God, she hadn’t smudged her mascara, had she? Probably. It was a little habit of hers. No doubt he’d found something much more interesting to look at by now.
She snuck a quick glance at him from the corner of her eye. Shit, he was still staring right at her. No, he was eye-fucking her. Mila’s heart slammed against her ribs. Just like that, she felt awkward. She wasn’t good at flirting. It felt too much like a game, and she hated games. Mila wasn’t a girl who flicked her hair, licked her lips, or gave off other sexy “I’m up for it” cues. She was too straightforward for all that.
Fuck, shit, fuck, what should she do? Well, she wouldn’t look at him again—that was for sure. She’d just look straight ahead. She’d ignore him. He probably wasn’t watching her anymore anyway. Right? There was no harm in just checking, though, and—
Shit, he was still looking at her. He probably thought she was going to do what other females did and fall all over him. Well, she wasn’t. Nuh-uh. She wasn’t even going to look at him again. Not even once.
Or maybe she could try eye-fucking him back? You know, for practice. And experimental purposes. Or something. No, it was best not to attempt it—she’d get it wrong for sure. She’d just come across as creepy and weird and then need to triple-blink with the pressure.
It would be better to go home and play with her vibrator. Because although Mila was just as susceptible to him as other females, she had no interest in a fling. Her ex was a lot like GQ in that he used sex as an escape and was interested only in one-sided relationships. She’d bet that, like Grant, GQ could suavely talk his way out of your life just as fast and as smoothly as he’d talked himself into it . . . somehow leaving you feeling good about yourself even as he ended what little you had together.