Wild Wolf (Shifters Unbound, #6)(24)

His face held the hardness of a man who’d survived on his strength alone for a long time, but Misty had always seen something in him besides the hardness. The tiny lines that feathered from the corners of his eyes, for example. He got them from laughing—Graham was a man not afraid to laugh. He could roar with it. Scars crisscrossed his cheekbones, and his nose had been broken, several times, he’d told her. His face was sunburned from their adventure today, but even that was healing, his skin settling into its usual liquid tan.

The sun-bronzing made his eyes stand out even more, the gray turning to silver as he watched her lick another bit of ice cream. She moved her tongue around the mound on the spoon and drew it back between her lips . . .

Graham snarled. With one flick of his big hand, he sent the ice cream bowl flying across the table to shatter on the floor.

Misty could form only the first syllable of his name in protest before he was up and out of the kitchen, striding out the back door into her small, walled yard.

As she leapt up to follow him, she realized the entire kitchen had gone quiet. Matt and Kyle were staring, their eyes round, spoons frozen in place. Xavier, across the room, was watching as well. He didn’t smile, but there was a knowing look in his eyes. Only Reid was oblivious, still poring over the little book.

Misty darted out the back door, pulling it closed behind her. Graham was striding through her small yard, which she’d filled with desert and tropical flowers she carefully cultivated. He was stomping around, hands clasped on his head, the sun beating down on him. He was about to ruin the clump of autumn sage she’d nursed back from frost kill last winter—she’d finally got the plant bushy again, the bright red blossoms cheerful against the green.

Misty marched to Graham and grabbed him by the arm. He swung around, the look in his eyes so wild and empty that Misty had to take a faltering step back.





CHAPTER EIGHT





He couldn’t do this. Graham couldn’t be around this woman, who smelled like honey and spice, who curled her tongue around the light and dark ice cream as though it were the sweetest aphrodisiac.

He had a hard-on that wouldn’t stop. Xav Escobar knew it, the *. Graham had recognized the smirk. Of course, Xav probably had one too. And for that, Graham would kill him.


“I can’t do this,” he said.

“Can’t do what?” Misty stood in front of him, hands on her hips. “Break my door? Smash my dishes? Trample my plants? You’re like walking mass destruction.”

She wanted him to apologize, Graham realized. But Graham never apologized. You said sorry, and people felt smug and justified, and started to take advantage.

Hard to look into those sweet brown eyes and say nothing, though. “I’ll fix your front door.”

“You bet your ass you will,” Misty said. “Now, are we going to talk about it?”

There she went again. Talking. Always talking. “I thought you were done with me,” Graham said.

“I am, but that doesn’t mean I’m not still mad at you. Or not talking to you.”

“Then we’re not done.” Not by a long way.

“Yes, we are.”

Graham turned from her, not liking how fast his heart was beating. Or how thirsty he was. He fought it, having learned to work through hunger and thirst a long time ago, but he knew he couldn’t banish it entirely. The Fae magic had gotten to him, but he couldn’t give in to it. If he did that, he was dead.

To keep himself from thinking about the thirst, he focused on Misty’s yard. It was like her—compact, neat, beautiful. She hadn’t simply stuck clumps of plants everywhere. The yard had been landscaped, sculpted almost, with low mounds of grass and gravel hosting small flowering bushes and plants that bloomed fiercely under the hot sun. A false wash of river rock cut through the yard, crossed by a small wooden bridge.

Stepping stones led to the bridge and across the yard on the other side. Between the stones were gravel and scatterings of plants, blossoms moving in the summer breeze. The ugly cement block walls, so common in Southwestern cities, were softened by stands of hot pink and white oleanders on two walls, with a line of rose bushes, sheltered from the direct sun, on the third.

A pretty garden, with chairs and tables set out so Misty and friends could sit and enjoy iced tea or whatever women drank on summer afternoons. Graham was out of place here, a hulking creature in the diminutive space.

Misty seemed to be waiting for something. Graham did not understand her—anything female, in fact. She declared she was finished with him, then she ran after him. She said she wanted to talk to him, then she expected him to do the talking, when Graham wasn’t any good at it.

“What do you want me to say?” he ended up almost shouting. Yelling—that he was good at.

Misty glared. Did she know how edible she looked in her body-hugging tank top, the shorts that stopped mid-thigh? She’d put on sandals, which showed her bare legs all the way to her toes. Misty wasn’t a stick, thank the Goddess. Some human women starved themselves down to skin and bones and thought it looked good. Insanity.

Misty had round breasts, arms that were plump from shoulders to elbow then tapered into soft wrists and small hands. Strong hands—she worked hard in her store, carrying plants, heavy pots and baskets, armloads of flowers, buckets of water. Her legs were sturdy and curved, calves soft and kissable.