Chapter 6
Sting
By the time I reach the top of the hill, there are less stars in the sky. It isn’t quite dawn twilight, but it’s headed in that direction. The moon is low in the opposite side of the sky. A moment of jealousy at werewolves pricks at me, I want to howl at the moon. Gnash my teeth. Rip my heart out.
I can’t get her out of my mind. Or her scent away from me. Or the touch of her delicate, warm skin off my fingertips. She’s leaving. She’s leaving. She’s not yours. I tell myself this over and over, a mantra to keep myself steady. I have my work. My solitude. All I have ever wanted.
So why do I want to taste her lips?
Leaving Westfang for my own private lair was exactly the solace I needed and craved. Even with orcs, minotaurs, and other monsters, I was “other.” And it was exhausting. Isolating. Lonely.
It’s stupid, this level of yearning for some idiotic human woman who got herself stranded in the desert. What were they thinking? I still don’t know. And I shouldn’t care. I’m not their, or her, protector.
As soon as that thought flies through my mind, the scabbed over mark over my heart burns. I know I’m wrong. And I know that my fate, her fate, is no longer our own.
Peeling away my shirt from my chest, I see the faint glow of the mate mark.
A tattoo that shows I’ve found my mate, whether or not I want to believe and accept it.
Her. Even as the scabs fall away, showing the intertwined hearts, the scorpion’s tail, and a spring of flower—a hyacinth, I know. Without a doubt.
I am her protector. I would burn down everything I’ve built to have just one day with her. I’d follow her to the ends of the Earth. And the acknowledgement makes my stomach roil.
At dawn, I start breakfast. Pancakes, bacon, fresh fruit salad, and a vegetable quiche.
It’s calming to work in the kitchen and make something for my mate.
Or it would be if I weren’t such a sap, debating whether to tell her or not.
Perhaps somethings are better left to shrivel and die.
How would a flower as delicate as a hyacinth survive in this desert environment?
If the desert were sentient, it’s entire goal would be to burn every living thing that dared enter its domain.
I could never wish that on her. It would be unfair to her.
By the time the tea kettle whistles, I’ve made up my mind.
I’ll let her go. She’ll thrive in her life wherever that may be. And I’ll stay here. Making mezcal. Rescuing dumb animals who need rescuing. Alone.
I can see why their parents named them after flowers. As they sit and chat and ooo and aahhh over breakfast, they light the room with their countenances. Bright, smiling, almost bubbling.
Lily acts like nothing is wrong; this is all part of the plan for her vacation weekend in Vegas. It’s amusing.
Hyacinth smiles, but I can feel the undercurrent of something less than happiness under the surface. She’s worried. About what, I’ll never know. I’ve already ordered a car for them. It should be here in an hour.
“These are the fluffiest pancakes I’ve ever had!” Lilly exclaims. Hyacinth nods in agreement, her large doe eyes fixed on me. I shrug it off.
“Family recipe,” I admit, turning away from the hunger in her gaze that makes me remember the feel of her in my arms in the early morning hours. I have to stifle a groan. Those are memories I don’t get to claim.
“Is your family nearby?” Hyacinth asks, large sparkling eyes curious again.
I’m not used to people being genuinely curious.
Mostly, it’s the type of curiosity that people exhibit at a circus, looking at freak exhibits.
I’m a shifter, a monster, but not part of the “traditional” monsters and shifters people are used to, and so they eye me with suspicion.
But Hyacinth’s face is open with curiosity, delight.
The mark on my chest aches with longing.
“No. I came out here ages ago. Needed some space and solitude.” Lily snorts at that. I ignore her and press on, for Hyacinth. “I have a distillery in Westfang, but I prefer to spend my time out here.”
Her pretty lips mouth the town name, pondering it. It’s one of those places that is on the map, but people don’t visit very often. The orcs on the ranches there have built a bit of myth around the town. Humans tend to think of it as a ghost town, and that doesn’t bother any of the residents at all.
“What do you distill?” she asks, ignoring the question I know she wanted to ask about the town and my family.
“Mezcal. It’s like a roasted tequila.”
“I love tequila!” Lily pipes up, completely missing her sister rolling her eyes at her.
“That sounds so interesting,” Hyacinth says. Then, after a minute of pondering she says, “Maybe one day you’ll show me the facility in Westfang?” Before I can answer, she goes back to eating and listening to her sister.
After a few more minutes of chit-chat between them, low murmurings, Hyacinth speaks up.
“I was thinking maybe we could spend the day here, then go back this evening to pack our things. Fly out in the morning. What do you think Lily?” Her voice is bright and cheery and louder than it needs to be just speaking to her sister.
Back to her, I nod. That would be torture, but fine.
The car will be here soon, but that doesn’t matter.
Whatever she needs, I’ll make it happen.
“Oh Hy, you’re so silly! We have a black tie event tonight!” I’m surprised Lily’s squeal doesn’t break glass.
“What do you mean? You didn’t tell me that.” There’s the faintest undertone of annoyance.
“Of course not. I knew you wouldn’t agree. It’s a James Bond themed gambling dinner. It’s going to be so swanky! I have your dressed picked out, don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried.” Lily completely misses the disappointment and frustration in Hyacinth’s voice. It makes me curious as to the dynamics of their relationship.
I also wonder if Lily’s punk fiancé is going to make an appearance. Because I have words I’d like to speak to him.
“Is Patrick coming?” Hyacinth asks. Pride blooms in my chest at her suspicion, like she has the same lowly opinion of him that I do.
“Yes,” Lily whispers, then quickly shoves a slice of bacon into her mouth.
“I don’t want to go,” Hyacinth says, setting her fork down on her plate. “I can’t be in the same room as him. I’m not sure I can be in the same building as him. He tried to have us killed. Or at least injured and lost.” She says the last sentence as Lily balks at the word killed.
“He apologized.”
“You said yourself he sounded surprised to hear from you. Like he wasn’t expecting you to be able to call him.” Now Hyacinth is standing, seething. My mate mark burns again, telling me to go and support her, stand behind her. Lend her my strength as she stands up to her sister.
But I don’t need to. She’s strong, smart, and completely capable of saving herself.
“I know. But after sleeping on it, I think maybe I overreacted. I was, you know, a little bit tired. This will be good. I’ll see him face to face, look into his eyes, and see whether or not he meant us harm or not. And we get to wear fancy dresses.”
Hyacinth rolls her eyes and walks to the door. “I need some air,” she says, then steps out into the morning.
Lily stares after her for several minutes, I assume she thinks her sister will walk back through and admit defeat.
But Hyacinth is made of stronger stuff than that.
When it’s clear that she isn’t coming back, Lily turns to glare at me.
“He is a good guy,” she says, but it’s clearly an attempt to lie to herself.
“I think everything will be okay once we get back to the city. Thank you for breakfast.”
“If I were to meet your fiancé, he would fear for his life. Even if it wasn’t intentional, he did no due diligence, sending out with an untrusted guide into the desert. It’s idiotic. I would never put my mate in jeopardy like that.”
Lily mouths the word mate, trying it out in her mouth. I would smile, but I have no grace to give her.
I need to check on Hyacinth.
It’s easy to follow her scent across the stone yard.
She’s sitting on a box inside the shed, watching the foxes wrestle.
It won’t be much longer before they’re ready for their new home.
My chest aches at the thought of giving them to the burly green orcs in Westfang.
But not near the pain that I have when I think of watching Hyacinth leave.
“Are you okay?” I ask, approaching slowly to ensure I don’t scare her.
With a sniffle, she nods yes, wipes her eyes, then looks at me.
“I love her, of course. She’s my sister.
But sometimes she’s so dense. It’s like she’s been blinded by this idiot because he tells her she’s pretty and he has money.
” Her hands wave about in animation as she speaks, demonstrating her frustration.
The hiccup in her voice is adorable, even if her being upset makes me want to teach both Patrick and Lily a lesson.
How can her sister be this short-sighted about this man?
It takes one fox sneeze, and I’m beside Hyacinth, on one knee, holding her hand in mine. “Your sister makes her choices, and you make yours. You can only protect her so long. I’m sorry this has been such an upsetting weekend.”
A smile plays on her lips as she says, “Not the typical Vegas weekend, that’s for sure!
” That makes me laugh. Her hand reaches up to move a loose lock of hair away from my cheek.
Her fingers are delicate, smooth. She rests her hand on my cheek—I’m conscious of the prickly stubble growing on my chin and jawline, but it doesn’t seem to bother her.
Hyacinth’s smile, even a sad one, is brighter than the desert sun outside.
“I don’t want you to cry.” It seems silly, trite, to want to cheer her up. To want to wipe her tears.
It takes a minute, her eyes searching mine, hand still cupping my jawline, thumb gently stroking my cheek. Her scent changes as time passes. From grief and frustration to something sweeter. Yearning. Leaning forward, our noses almost touching, she kisses me.
Fireworks erupt inside me. Outside me. Burning me to the ground.
My mate mark is fire against my chest—bright white with flame and desire.
Need and hunger push us together. The need to taste her cheek, neck, ear, collarbone.
The hunger of my fingers holding her close to me, digging into her sweet, soft, dimpled skin.
To hold her heat against me. To show her that I want her.
That she’s mine. She tastes like sweet berries and syrup and salty tears.
Her arousal fills the air around us, a perfume of everything I’ve ever dreamed of.
A car door slams, shaking us out the haze we’re in.
“That’s my ride,” Hyacinth says in a tremulous whisper. A kit gives a half-bark-half-scream from the pen, making us jump. I feel the same way, kit. “Thank you for everything.”
She stands and walks toward the door, expecting me to follow, but I refuse to watch her drive away.