Chapter 11
Owen
Cooking for Megan—tending to her needs—hits me in a place I didn’t even know existed.
I’ve lived a long time craving peace. Fighting for scraps of quiet in a town full of chaos.
But tonight? With her in my kitchen, eating the food I made with her fork scraping against my plate and her soft laughter bouncing off the walls?
It’s more than peace.
It’s downright homey. And fuck, I never knew how much I wanted that till now.
She insists on helping me clean, and though it goes against every bone in my body not to tell her to sit her fine ass down and relax, I let her.
Because watching her move through my kitchen like she belongs there—like she already fits into the rhythm of my life—does something to me.
She wipes crumbs off my table.
Loads my dishwasher.
Moves around like she’s done it a hundred times before.
And I can see it.
So damn clearly.
Her here. Every day. Barefoot, messy-haired, wearing one of my shirts and bitching about my too strong coffee.
The ache in my chest is immediate. Sharp. Desperate.
I haven’t even really kissed her yet.
Haven’t had more than a few teasing brushes of skin, a firm hand at her neck, that sinful moment when I told her good girls get dessert.
But now?
All I can think about is how she’ll taste.
How she’ll sound.
How fast she’ll fall apart in my hands once I finally stop holding back.
What are you waiting for then?
My Wolf’s voice slithers through me, hungry and coiled tight, breath steaming in my thoughts.
And for once, the growly bastard has a point.
“Should I make some coffee?” Megan asks, pointing toward the pot on the counter.
Her voice is casual, light.
But her eyes?
Those hazel eyes are wide, curious, and full of something that looks a hell of a lot like want.
I don’t answer.
I reach for her instead.
I tug her to me gently—but firmly. The way a man reaches for what’s his.
She comes willingly, gasping softly as our bodies align, her palms flattening against my chest like she’s bracing for impact.
That dimple shows again as she presses her lips together, like she doesn’t know whether to smile or run.
“What—what are you doing?” she whispers, her voice unsteady.
I drop my head, mouth a hair’s breadth from hers.
“You ate all your dinner,” I murmur, voice low and rough.
“So?”
“So,” I repeat, anticipation bussing in my veins like a live wire, “It’s time for dessert.”
Then I kiss her.
Not fast.
Not hard.
Just lips brushing. Breath to breath. A soft, tentative pressure that sends shockwaves through my entire system.
It’s not raunchy. Not hungry.
Not yet.
But it’s still the most phenomenal fucking thing I’ve ever felt.
Her mouth is soft. Warm. Willing.
My entire body tightens as she melts against me, her fingers curling into my shirt.
She gasps.
And that’s it. That’s my invitation.
I slide my tongue past her lips, groaning as I finally taste her—really taste her—from the source.
And it’s perfect.
She tastes like heat and danger and something wild I was never supposed to have, but now that I have, it’s mine. She is mine.
She’s that something wild and perfect I never knew I’d be lucky enough to have in my grasp. And now that she’s here? I’ll chase her all the way to the gates of Hell and back just to keep her.
Her hands fist in my shirt.
Mine grip her hips, hauling her up flush against me until I can feel the full curve of her pressed to every hard edge of me.
My Wolf howls.
Mine. Ours. Take her. Claim her. Now.
I shove him down, barely. Just enough not to lose control.
Because this kiss?
It’s more than lust.
It’s a beginning.
But already, it feels like a promise.
Like the first line in a story that can only end one way—her in my arms, her in my bed, her in my life.
Forever.
And I’ll be damned if anything—Warlock, ghost, Hellmouth, or fate—is going to take that away from me.