Chapter 19
Bastian woke from his nap and inhaled. He smelled her, faintly. He’d smelled her earlier too, in the doorway of his room, but no further than that. A smile stretched across his face at the mere thought of her.
“Teddy, no!” Eleanor’s voice drifted upstairs, scolding. He sat up, listening. “Bad kitty! Why would you do that? We’re guests here!” He sat up and groaned. Great. The cat probably took a shit on his favorite rug or something. “Bastian’s going to kill us,” her voice hissed, quieter now.
He wouldn’t have heard her, were it not for his supernatural senses.
Taking a deep breath, he swung his legs off the bed and used the bathroom.
Then he had a seat on the chaise in the corner of the room, forearms braced on his knees.
He hung his head, closed his eyes, and set about pouring energy into his metals.
It was a tedious process, requiring focus and calm—
“No! Come back here!” Eleanor’s voice again.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered, eyes darting open.
There was a clatter, followed by the slapping of bare feet on tile.
Was she chasing the damned cat? A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
He pushed away the thought of her running through his house and closed his eyes again, this time gathering his extra energy and channeling it into his metal jewelry, including the jewelry he kept hidden behind his glamor.
He only showed off about half of what he wore.
Most humans were already shocked by his number of piercings.
Keeping the rest hidden avoided extra questions. Extra attention.
While the majority of his piercings were for magic, a couple were purely recreational. He chuckled, recalling Eleanor’s surprise at his tongue piercing. If she knew about the other, the one at the base of his cock, she’d probably require a fainting couch.
His cock twitched and he adjusted his pants. She would like it, the way it teased her clit while he fucked her. What sorts of sounds might she make for him?
He shot to his feet, restless—
“See that?” Eleanor admonished. “Don’t ever do it again, understand?”
He chuckled, striding from the room. It was a fucking cat. Not like her scolding would make a difference. He was more eager about what it might mean for her…
No. He pushed that thought away, disbanded the images of punishing her, putting her over his knee, and leaving handprints on her ass.
He found her in the living room, staring at the side of the couch. Right where—
“Your cat clawed my fucking couch?!” he hissed, sneaking up behind her. She jumped backwards and spun toward him, eyes widening.
“Bastian! Hi! Didn’t know you were up.” She inched over to try and hide the corner of the couch from view. He caught her up, wrapping his hands around her upper arms, pulling her flush against him, against his hardening cock.
Okay…perhaps he should have waited to calm down before coming downstairs.
“Uhm… It was an accident?” she squeaked, eyes darting over his expression.
“That so?” His hands drifted down and splayed open, wrapping around her hips, pressing her more firmly against him. “I suppose I could use a bit of magic to fix it, unless you want to sew it up?”
She scoffed. “Yeah, sure, let me run to my room and get my handy little sewing kit. I take it everywhere with me.”
He lifted his brows. “If I wanted your smart mouth, sugar, I’d have claimed it already.”
“If I wanted an asshole, Bastian—”
He dove for her, capturing her lips before she could finish the sentence.
She let out a squeak, pausing only momentarily before kissing him back.
Her groan had his balls tightening. He ripped his lips away just as quickly, pushing her to arm’s length, breathing hard.
“That was for the couch,” he explained. Then, just for the fuck of it, waved a hand dramatically and watched the cat’s scratches stitch back together, like it had never even happened.
“Now, go change back into those sexy little shorts you were wearing earlier. I need to blow off some steam. Meet me downstairs in five.”
She made a sound of complaint in the back of her throat. “I’m not sparring with you.”
“You are. Want me to throw you over my shoulder? Rules of the house. You live here, you spar with me.”
“That’s bullshit. You made that up just now.”
“So? Doesn’t make it any less of a rule.”
She squared her shoulders and planted her feet, crossing her arms. “And, what? You’re just going to start making up rules whenever you want?”
“My house. I can make whatever rules I want. Now, go get dressed.”
“I’m wearing this.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Pajama pants and a tank top? Well, all right. I don’t mind if your tits pop out. I certainly wouldn’t mind seeing them after last night.”
She growled—if it could be called that—and pushed past him, elbowing him as she went.
“Fine,” she hissed. “I’ll go change.”
He fought the smile threatening his face. Fought, and lost. Then he adjusted his pants and headed downstairs.
The sight of Eleanor, sweaty and panting, did so many things to him.
She shot forward, trying to land a punch to his side.
He dodged, moving slowly like a human might, then spun around and put her in a chokehold.
She grabbed his forearm and dropped her shoulder, pulling him forward, then elbowed him, freeing herself from the hold.
“Good,” he said, pleased. “You’re already better than you were an hour ago. ”
She’d been taking MMA for a little over a year, and while it showed, she still needed work. Work he was happy to help her with. Especially if he got to watch her tight little ass in those little shorts.
“How long do we have to keep doing this?” she panted, bending over to plant her hands on her knees.
“‘Till I get tired of touching you, sugar.”
“You’re a pig.”
“Oh? Did you think so last night when I had my fingers inside you?”
“What the fuck?!” she sputtered. Her face turned a darker shade of red and she stalked away to the water dispenser. He watched her gulp down a full glass, watched the movement of her long throat before pulling his eyes away.
A quick glance in the mirrors showed him panting too, muscles corded from the increased blood flow. His long black hair was braided tightly down the side of his scalp. The shaved side was going to need attention in a couple of days.
His eyes flicked back to Eleanor. She was filling her glass again, probably stalling.
“What made you want to learn martial arts?” he asked, crossing his arms, watching her. He’d been curious but had refrained from voicing the question until now. She tensed, then shrugged. “In my experience, there’s always a reason. Want me to start guessing?”
She threw him a glare. He already had a solid theory. There was a reason he was good at his job. Drawing conclusions was one of them.
“All right,” he said, when she didn’t respond. “You said that asshole—Luke—trashed your apartment? The one manhandling you inappropriately behind the club? You’ve got some history with him?”
Her face, red with exertion only minutes ago, went pale.
His jaw tightened as a new realization struck him. The blood pumping past his ears turned to a roar. He took a step forward and she flinched—fucking flinched. Just like she’d done in the coffee shop. Which confirmed his worst fears.
“Did he hurt you, sugar? Before?” His voice was sharp enough to cut.
Her throat bobbed. She shook her head, then kept on shaking it.
“Well?” His fists clenched.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she whispered. Then she spun and turned her back to him, fussing with the dispenser.
“No, fuck this. We’re talking about it.” He swallowed the distance between them and lifted a hand to reach for her. She flinched again, as if sensing it. He froze, arm outstretched, but didn’t lay a finger on her. He would never touch someone in such a state, never force his touch on anyone.
“Please, don’t,” she whispered as if reading his mind. His chest constricted.
“He fucking hurt you, didn’t he? You think I can’t tell what the aftermath of abuse looks like?”
He knew—all too well.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said again, lifting her voice, rounding on him. Her face was tight, eyes flashing with hurt, with fear.
“I will fucking kill him,” he hissed. “I will hunt him down and I will rip out his entrails. And then I will fucking strangle him with them.”
Her eyes rounded. She took a staggering step back, a new fear flashing in her gaze. “Stop,” she whispered. “Please, just—stop!”
He froze, mouth opening, closing. His throat went dry and he swallowed. He was scaring her. “Fuck,” he muttered. He ran a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Eleanor. I didn’t mean to get carried away. I’m sorry.”
Her jaw clenched. “It’s…”
It fucking hurt, seeing her like this. It woke a primal side of him—made him want to protect her.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” he said, rushing through the words, hoping to calm her down.
He didn’t want to cause her pain, no matter how badly he wanted to know what had happened.
It was his fault. No—it was that fucking human’s fault.
Another fucking human. Even without magical abilities, they could be as bad, if not worse, than supernaturals.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
It shouldn’t have wrenched his insides to see her like this, but it did. It made him see red, made him want to smash someone’s face to a pulp—Luke’s. He leashed the goblin side of himself.
“I was hurt too,” he said, the words catching in his throat, surprising even himself. But now that they were out, he couldn’t seem to stop. “When I was younger—a long time ago now. I was betrayed by someone I loved.”
She watched him, motionless, except for the tilting of her head.
“I told you yesterday that I draw the line with humans, and for good reason.”
Her brows pulled together, a small line appearing. “They hurt you?” she asked, her voice tentative.