Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“Except that they’re only collecting shit that can be used in battle.”
Aurelia playfully winks at me. “Minor details, P.”
The three of us share a laugh prior to me stating, “We’ll take that book and this ring.”
“Excuse me?” Cameron breathlessly asks.
Without meeting her gaze, I continue instructing the excited being behind the counter. “Charge both to my account.”
My Fated Mate tries to interrupt again, “Ptur-”
“You sure?” Aurelia gleefully gleams. “The book I can cut you a deal on. Curve the price ‘til it feels nice, but that,” she motions to the ring that’s still being held, “that you’re gonna go to bed feeling and wake up feeling it, too.”
The expression on my face remains unchanged. “Charge. Them.”
“Guess if I’m gonna do that, I could just give you the bubbly on the house…” the owner impishly grins.
“Wait, have you been charging me for champagne every time I come in?”
Her devilish grin reaches her ears.
“I want a receipt this time.” I playfully point. “An itemized receipt.”
Snickers fall from her as she prepares to saunter away. “You wanna wear that out or you want a box?”
Cameron defensively stands up straight. “I wanna talk about the cost.”
“No.”
“I wanna talk about paying for it myself.”
“No.”
“Fine. I wanna talk about paying you back.”
“Fuck no.”
Her body sharply spins so that we are face to face. “Ptur-”
“You are my Fated Mate bonded or not. I live to protect you and to please you. This does both. It can be used as a weapon in a time of crisis while also connecting you to a piece of yourself that you have not known for over half of your existence. I can provide this for you; therefore, I am. And you are going to let me because this is the cheaper option with the alternative being that I buy the entire store in order to give you that one piece of jewelry anyway.”
The faintest hint of dark green tints her cheeks at the same time she challenges, “You wouldn’t.”
“For you?” My face cranes closer. “I absolutely. Would.”
More of the color shades her round face.
“Now, would you like to wear it home, Pint-Sized, or would you like Aurelia to grab a box that she is not,” the troublemaking nymph is shot a quick scolding glance, “going to charge me for?”
“I wanna wear it,” Cameron quietly insists almost like she can hardly fathom the idea.
She’s presented with a single nod and sweet affectionate knuckle stroke of the throat. “Then wear it you will.” Her teeth steal a small bite of her bottom lip on a faint whimper. The sound can barely be heard but the vibrations are impossible for both sides of me to ignore. Rather than ruin the moment—something she makes me very good at it—I needlessly tug at my tie and sigh, “I’m gonna step away to take a leak. Champagne always works its way too fast through me. Watch her. Make sure she gives you an accurate receipt. Nothing with bullshit taxes for seasonal lighting or purchasing on a certain lunar cycle.”
Aurelia pretends to scoff, “I would never-”
“Six months ago,” my stare snaps to hers, “you charged me a back tax. A literal tax because your back was hurting and having to lean over to get me the piece that I wanted caused it to hurt more.”
Both females giggle, although only Cameron’s makes me feel complete.
“Like I said…,” I slowly back up towards the part of the store where the bathroom is located, “watch her.”
“Will do, Beanstalk.”
Between the wink she presents and the nickname, the grin on my face is much too goofy to be seen in public. I spin around and drop my head to prevent the few others in the store from seeing the spectacle.
At the end of the hall, just on the other side of racks filled with coats, scarves, and curtains, I slip into the unoccupied one-person restroom. The space, which is one I typically avoid due to its chaotic décor, is thankfully wide enough that I don’t feel like I’m stuck in a sardine can. Being enormous in height, especially compared to most Sleepers that don’t play a professional sport, often forces me to contort myself in ways I hate—outside of sex—just to fit into certain spaces.
It’s the primary reason I meet with creatures in areas that I decide.
It’s the only way I know I won’t go home with a strained neck from hunching most of the evening.
Shortly after I’ve finished washing my hands, an unusual niggling puts my senses on high alert.
What that fuck is that?
Mate.
Dabbing the paper towels across my fingers is done during an inward interrogation.
She hurt?
No.
In danger?
No.
Then what?
Need.
In need of what? Money? Food? More champagne?
You.
Being completely driven by the answer is what has me damn near ripping the handle off the door to exit yet finding her waiting on the other side, face flush, mouth open, chest heaving, is what stumbles me back in. I’m not given the opportunity to verbally ask what’s happening, and in all honesty, I don’t fucking need it.