Chapter 17
Owen
We’ve been holed up in the office all morning.
Maps. Blueprints. Esmerelda’s salt circle diagrams. Preacher’s infernal glyph scrawlings that look like something pulled from the edge of madness.
And through it all, Megan—my mate—is laser focused. Beautifully, maddeningly focused.
She’s been hunched over an open tome on Demonic exorcisms for the last hour, her brow furrowed, one foot bouncing, her lips moving slightly as she reads.
And it’s driving me insane.
Not because I don’t love watching her work—I do.
Hell, I could stare at her lips shaping Latin for the rest of my damn life.
But because I can feel her starting to fade.
Her scent’s changed—just slightly—edges softening with fatigue. Her heartbeat’s dipping into that mid-afternoon lull. And even though she hasn’t said a word, I know what’s coming.
Her stomach growls a half-second later.
I don’t flinch. Just lean over her, palm down on the desk, and murmur, “Come on, Baby.”
She doesn’t even look up. “What? I’m almost finished—”
“No, you’re not,” I cut in, hand already reaching for hers. “Besides, the Crypts aren’t demons. That stuff’s not gonna help. You need food.”
Right on cue, her stomach lets out another growl that echoes off the office walls like a challenge.
She lifts her gaze and narrows her eyes at me.
“How do you do that? You always seem to know when I’m hungry.”
I grin. Can’t help it. I give her fingers a squeeze.
“Because I’m your mate. That means your hunger’s my hunger now. Your tired is my tired. Your cranky? Yeah, that’s—well, that’s just cute as hell.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re starving. Let me fix that.”
She sighs like she wants to protest—but I can tell she’s hit the wall.
Her eyes are glazed, her posture slumped, and she’s been running on caffeine and adrenaline since before sunrise.
“Fine,” she relents, stretching her arms over her head—and sweet fuck, I almost cancel the lunch run and drag her to the nearest flat surface. “But I want Korean BBQ.”
There’s a beat of silence.
She doesn’t meet my gaze.
Which means she thinks we don’t have that here.
“You serious?” I ask, tone low and amused.
She shrugs, but I catch the corner of her mouth twitching.
“You gonna tell me tiny, cursed towns in central Texas have authentic Korean BBQ?” she asks, folding her arms across that perfect chest like she doesn’t already know I’d move mountains to feed her.
I slide an arm around her waist, tug her in tight, and drop a slow, lingering kiss just below her temple—right where her pulse jumps for me.
“Woman,” I murmur against her warm skin, dragging my nose along the edge of her jaw, “I’m about to take you to the finest damn Korean BBQ you’ve ever had. Real deal. Table grills. Kimchi that bites harder than your sarcasm. And soju strong enough to knock your cute Jersey accent into next week.”
She hums, leaning into me just enough to let me know she’s loving every second of this.
“You know I love kimchi?” she asks, tone teasing.
I nod, letting my fingers trail dangerously low on her back.
“Don’t ask me how. I just do.”
She squints at me, that fake-suspicious glint in her eye.
“Is that another secret Shifter thing I’m not allowed to question?”
“Yup,” I say, popping the p with a grin. “Filed right next to how I know exactly how you like your coffee and which panties you’re wearing right now.”
She smacks my chest, but her cheeks are pink and her lips twitch.
“Let me guess,” she says. “The chef’s a Tiger.”
“Wrong again. Bear shifter. Big bastard. Name’s Jun. Been slow-roasting the best dang short ribs this side of Texas since the last time the Cowboys won the Super Bowl. Man’s a food prophet. But fair warning—he will weep if you don’t moan at least once when you eat his bulgogi.”
“Oh, so you’re bringing me somewhere with expectations,” she says, narrowing her eyes like she’s pretending to be offended.
“I mean, I have expectations,” I whisper, leaning in to nip at the shell of her ear. “But I plan to meet all of yours first.”
She gasps softly, and I swear I feel her knees go a little weak.
Victory.
Her eyes flick to mine—bright, playful, and full of fire. “You’re a menace.”
“Only to your willpower.”
I press my palm to the small of her back and guide her toward the truck, letting it linger, letting her feel exactly how much I love touching her.
How much I plan to touch her—again, and again, and again.
“If this place isn’t as good as you say, I’m demanding dessert.”
“You’ll get dessert,” I growl, helping her into the passenger seat. “Just maybe not the kind they serve on plates.”
That gets me a laugh.
A real one. Loud, bright, belly-deep—cut from the same cloth as moonlight and music.
And, fuck, it does something to me. Lights me up from the inside out.
Because she’s here. Laughing. Letting me take care of her. Letting me be the kind of man—mate—she can lean on.
This? Right here?
It’s more powerful than any damn full moon. Any curse or damnation.
All I know is I’ll be chasing that sound—the sound of her laughter—until the end of this and any other world because as of right now, Megan DiNapoli is my present, my future, and the only thing that means anything to me. Even my Wolf agrees.
Mine.