Chapter 8
Kade
This Librarian will be the death of me.
I silently pace the length of the far wall, as far from the bed as I can get while still remaining within visual range. Every step is measured, controlled, but inside I’m coming apart at the seams.
I shouldn’t have brought her here, but what options did I have? The shard is part of her, somehow. Which I would have sensed immediately, if I wasn’t so busy fighting my every instinct, caught off guard.
Now she’s here. In my space. In my bed. Smelling like me. Smelling like her. Fuck.
The scents mingle, a potent, dangerous cocktail.
My blood flares, hot and sharp, burning in my core.
It’s a primal, irresistible pull, stronger than anything I’ve ever known, clawing at my control.
Every muscle aches with the effort of not crossing this room, not closing the distance between us.
She’s so close. Each moment I resist going to her is excruciating, agonizing.
Mate. The word pulses in my veins, invading me, an unassailable demand from the deepest part of my nature. The urge is so strong, it’s a physical pain, a constant ache in my chest that grows worse with every breath she takes.
I deserve a fucking medal for fighting this all week.
Ever since the library. The instant I touched her, a jolt, a recognition unlike any other.
My body surged in a devastating awakening.
The bond was not gentle; it was not kind.
It tore into me deeper than the echo-beast’s claws, and it will leave marks that will last far longer.
Her scent in my nose, intoxicating. Her skin under my palms, fucking heaven.
Before I knew what I was doing, I was responding to it. It took hold of my soul with all the force of a steel vise.
Then she ran from me. If she only knew, she wouldn’t dare.
How foolish it was. My base instincts took over, overriding rational thought.
Instincts to chase, to catch, to have. To claim.
I hardly realized what I was doing until after I’d already grabbed her.
And fucking hell, I can hear how wrong that is even as I think it.
The awakening of a mating bond is a powerful experience, but it’s not an excuse.
Now, I’m stuck with these memories of her rosy hair in my face, my arms around her, pressing her body so close, so close. It tortures me. I dream of her. But it is all I will ever have. I’ll make sure of it.
She can never know.
I can only imagine what she’s feeling. I scared her then; I’m scaring her now.
Every part of me screams to protect her, but what she needs protection from is me.
She’s so incredibly fragile—a soft, vibrant human in her twenties who has no business being anywhere near a century-old lethal predator like me.
But my Lycan instincts don’t care. They only want to drag her against my chest, bare that delicate neck, and mark her so deeply the whole world knows she's mine.
If I let her see even a fraction of this hunger, what will she think? That my help comes with a price tag? That she has to warm my bed to keep me standing between her and that monster? I’d rather rip my own heart out than let her believe she has to trade her body for safety.
Especially now. It’s just me and her, alone, in my home. Her scent. Our scent. She’s sleeping again, clutching the furs like they’re armor against the world. I want to keep her in the bed, surround her in my scent, touch her, taste her. Take care of her.
The pull. It’s a relentless storm, battering down my walls. My entire being burns with the need to be near her, to ensure her safety, to possess her in a way that makes every rational thought shrivel and die.
My thoughts are going in circles. I have to fight it. Harder than I’ve ever fought anything.
And not only must I resist the primal nature of the bond, but on top of it, this woman just had to be brave and clever and amusing. It would be easier if she were dull and meek. If I didn’t like her.
I dig my nails into my palms. The pain helps, gives me something to focus on besides the way she looks curled up in my furs, a stubborn little line between her brows even in sleep, like she’s puzzling something out.
So fucking perfect it makes my heart stutter.
She’s so damned vulnerable, sleeping, relying on me to keep her safe.
Relying on me to have the answers, to be the unbreachable wall between her and the shadows.
And I will be. She will never have to doubt it.
But how much longer will this go on? I need to get away from her.
I need more control. I can’t protect her from anything if I get too attached, lose my edge.
Just like with Maia and the pack. The thought has me reaching into my pocket, running my fingers along the worn leather cord that lives there, rolling the bead that Maia gave me between my thumb and index finger.
I’ll be damned if it happens again.
And I have a job to do. I have to contain this magic that my mate—no, I can’t think of her that way—this magic that the Librarian stumbled upon.
Already it’s getting out of hand, the echo-beast stalking her.
It fucking grabbed her. Hurt her. The very thought makes me bristle and want to bare my teeth.
It will not have her, if I have to tear it to shreds over and over again for the rest of time.
So I keep watch. And I pace. And I want.
I can hear every rustle outside, every footfall on the street, every animal creeping through the undergrowth in the forest. Nothing out of the ordinary.
The Librarian shifts in her sleep, throwing her right arm out of the blankets, revealing the dancing glow of the mark.
It’s brighter now, responding to the rest she’s getting.
I stalk closer, as close as I dare, to observe it.
It takes up most of her forearm, the outline of a crystal with iridescent colors that swirl and shift beneath her skin, a faint, otherworldly glow.
Like trapped starlight. It is beautiful.
And, it’s a problem. When I felt the spike of magic at the library, my mission was simple: retrieve the source, contain it. Make sure bad shit doesn’t happen, essentially. But now the source is a person—a regular human woman (I will not think the word mate)—and my job just went to shit.
Eventually, a muted, overcast light seeps in through the skylight and through the high, large windows at the back of the warehouse that offer a view into the forest. I could never live somewhere without access to the woods for long.
It’s dawn. And with it, she stirs, tossing and turning.
Then her heartbeat increases. She’s waking. I retreat from the bedside, far across the room again, to the safety of the shadows where she can’t see the way I look when I look at her. I’ll have to be even more careful about it, now that it’s daytime.
She sits up slowly, pushing hair back from her face with steady hands. Blinking her eyes open, she finds me right away. She doesn’t know it, but no matter where I am, the bond within her is aware of me.
“How long was I asleep?”
“A few hours. How do you feel?”
“Like my entire worldview has been shattered.” She manages a weak laugh. “But physically? Better, except my ankle, anyway. Less exhausted.”
I want to ask to see her ankle. Bad idea. I better focus on something else. “You used a lot of energy creating that light, especially because you had no idea what you were doing. You needed the rest.”
She looks down at her arm, where the crystal mark has settled into a stable, gentle glow. “You’re right. It looks healthier now, doesn’t it?” she says softly, then looks up at me with sharp intelligence. “Can it be removed?”
There’s a hope in her eyes that I hate to quash.
But I do it anyway, because she needs to know the truth. “Not now. Not without destroying you. Maybe when we know more about it, maybe there will be a way. But based on everything I know . . .” I exhale roughly. “I doubt it.”
And unless I can think of a way to separate it from her, I will have to keep her here. With me. Indefinitely. I want to gnaw on something in frustration. It’s a terrible fucking idea.
“Right.” Her face falls, like I just told her someone died.
I want to gather her in my arms and reassure her.
I don’t. I can’t. I clench my jaw and stay in place by force of will, holding to the table so tightly it groans under the pressure.
I try to keep my thoughts on task (good luck with that, when my instincts are bellowing mate mate mate with all the subtlety of a trainwreck).
Her heart is racing now, getting faster. She’s on her feet now, suddenly restless. Smelling of panic.
“This is all insane. Nothing makes any sense, and, and I need to get this off me, I need to go back to work, to my life,” her words spiral out faster and faster, “my friends, my apartment, my books, Em.”
A low hum starts in the air, barely perceptible at first. It’s a frequency beyond the edge of human hearing, but I can hear it. The hair on my arms prickles.
“We’ll figure it out,” I say, trying to sound reassuring while I ignore the noise.
“We?” she says, spinning toward me, accusation thick in her voice. “And how do you know all of this, anyway? How are you involved? Why are you helping me?”
Her panic is escalating, and I can smell the acrid tang of fear mixing with her natural scent. Each question is a lash, ripping into me, making me restless beneath my skin. I feel desperate to eliminate whatever is causing her distress. Even if that something is me.
She takes a step in my direction, and the hum intensifies, then a faint shimmer appears in the air around her, almost like heat haze. It pulses with her frantic heartbeat. Dust motes near her begin to jerk erratically, as if caught in an invisible, rising current.
I need to calm her. The emotion is feeding the magic, making her more visible, more vulnerable.
“I know it’s a lot.” My voice is tight. Never been good at this part.