Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions novel Chapter 6

Chapter 6

“Good morning: I’m glad to see you’re feeling better,” her melodic voice floats towards ine. I’ve never heard something so beautiful. The sound alone makes me want to smile at her. I don’t fucking smile. Ever.

Stunned that my fated mate is a mere mortal and I’m having such a visceral reaction to her, I default to being brusque and borderline rude, “Who the hell are you?”

Her reaction is quick and instinctual. Sitting upright, straightening her spine, and hardening her eyes, she sneers at me, “I’m the fucking woman who saved your goddamn life last night. So, instead of being a douche and demanding answers from me, why don’t you try saying thank you.”

Fuck, she’s breathtaking when she’s angry!

“What you did was necessary; I’ll acknowledge that,” I grumble at her. I never say thank you to anyone; it’s beneath me.

“That was the driest, most begrudging almost–thank you I’ve ever heard,” she says as the corner of her mouth lifts. I’m torn between wanting to make her smile entirely so I can bask in her beauty and putting her in her place. Who does she think she is, talking to me like this?

“It’s the best you’re getting.”

“You do realize that saying ‘thank you won’t kill you, right?” she sasses me further, making me clench my jaw so tight that my molars protest in

my ear.

Choosing not to answer her, I change the subject completely, “Where’s my shirt?”

“In the garbage, it was ruined because of all the blood,” comes her nonchalant answer, and my jaw drops in disbelief.

“That’s a Tom Ford silk shirt. They cost $1,200 each. One doesn’t just throw it in the garbage,” I say in outrage. Her mouth pops open, making my mind drift to what types of things I can put inside it to stop her from giving me grief.

“Let me get this straight. You paid a thousand bucks for a plain black shirt? Does it at least grant you superpowers or immortality, or does it just make you look like an expensive douche–nozzle?”

“Don’t be ridiculous; I don’t need a shirt to be immortal. And it makes me look good, which is a superpower in and of itself,” I say, smirking at her. The look of utter bewilderment on her face is priceless. I think I’ve found my new favorite pastime activity.

Shaking her head, likely because her brain isn’t computing my first statement, she mutters, “Whatever,” and gets up from the recliner. Strolling into the kitchen, she throws over her shoulder, “I’m putting on a fresh pot of coffee, then I’ll come check your wound and swap your bandages.”

The realization hits me at hearing her words – my wound is already healed. There are two ways I can play this: I show her my healed wound, tell her exactly why it healed so fast, and then run the risk of her calling the loony bin on me. Or, I can reopen my wound to spend more time with

her

A couple of more hours spent in her company is just what I need to figure out what the Moon Goddess was thinking when she chose this little menace as my fated mate. She’ll never know. Besides…I’ve endured worse wounds than this laceration that’s nothing more than a weasly little paper cut.

As she’s rummaging in the kitchen, slamming cabinet doors and mumbling to herself about “entitled rich assholes“, I lift the bandage again. Lifting my right index finger and concentrating somewhat, I allow my nail to grow into a razor–sharp talon. Gently, I use the faint white scar as a guide to slice my flesh open, satisfied when fresh blood starts seeping out. Placing the bandage back in place, it quickly gets saturated in red

She saunters back into the living room, and 1 struggle to keep my eyes from drinking in every delicious inch of her milky skin. My hands itch to pull her to me and claim her in all the ways that matter the mual.

Siner my runerption as a vampire hundreds of years ago, I’ve had women who have shared my bed. Some could even be classified as my prifriend, but I always let them understand that I would never take someone as a chosen mute I wanted to wait for my fated mate, no mutter

I’ve always enjoyed the carnal side of life. The way a woman’s body is made to be ed and her desives fulfilled has brought

of pleasure with all kinds of women. But something was always lacking because none of them was my fated mate

was always looking for a deeper connection that would only come from being with my bonded soulnute. An unbreakable tie that heightens all our meuntes, seal on otherwise, to a level that is unique enough that shakespeare wrote sonnets about

Chapter 6

1 want to draw her into my lap, sink my fangs into her regal neck as I bury my cock in her wet heat, binding her to me for the rest of eternity. But because she’s mortal, I have to hold myself back. I need first to find out if she believes in the supernatural realm so I can plot my way forward.

I can’t decide on behalf of her if she wants to be turned into a vampire to live the rest of her immortal time urban legend.

AS 2

whispered superstition or an

For me, it was different. I was turned at a young age, so I have no real memories of a family, friends, or a career. But she does, and that will complicate things. She’ll still be able to have friends and go to work, but she’ll have to keep secrets to protect the ones she loves, and often, those are the heaviest of burdens to bear.

Begrudgingly, the fact that she’s mortal isn’t ideal, but she intrigues me. I strongly suspect she’ll fight me every opportunity she gets, but that will make the reward so much sweeter when she eventually submits to me.

I’m used to getting my way by using a particular look or word, Decades of acquired wealth and power make some people cower in my presence. And call me a pompous ass all you like, but I like how people inherently fear me. They might not know why, but being in the presence of a

either works for me. predator makes them want to submit or cower

If things get done to my specifications and needs with a few words or a glower here and there, I don’t see why being friendly, pleasant, and charming is required. Those things make you look weak. And I’m anything but weak.

what’s odd, though, is that she doesn’t seem to have a submissive bone in her body, at least where I’m concerned.

I wonder what interesting ways can use to make her bend the knee to me?

After grabbing the first aid kit that’s sitting on a side table, she comes over and perches that delectable ass the couch next to me. She’s ensuring our legs don’t touch, making me think she’s not as unaffected by me as she’d like me to believe. Let’s test that theory, shall we?

“Lift your arm and sit still,” she orders, and I find it amusing that she thinks she can boss me around

Without saying a word, I sling my arm over the back of the couch to give her enough space to work her magic.

Feeling back the bandage slowly but surely, the wound comes into view. Since I opened it up again a couple of minutes ago, it has stopped bleeding, but the gash is still raw and angry looking. Perfect.

She’s all business initially, not saying a word as she cleans the wound. When it comes to her putting anti–bacterial ointment on, I notice her fingers tremble slightly as they tentatively glide over my skin, and her eyes drift to my abs every few seconds.

Oh, she’s blushing-

She’s trying so hard not to look. Adorable. Should I flex? No, that’ll be too obvious. But maybe if I shift just a little… There we go. Oh,

Clearing her throat but still not making eye contact, she covers the wound with a fresh bandage and then grumbles under her breath, “I could’ve sworn the wound was larger last night.” She isn’t wrong, but I won’t correct her just yet.

She gets up, looking everywhere but at me, making me smirk. “Coffee’s in the kitchen; help yourself. I’m just going upstairs to get dressed.” What a shame. I was enjoying the view.

“Careful, you big oaf. Sit back down, and I’ll bring you the coffee and pain medications.” She quickly hustles out of the room, giving me a chance to hide my victorious smirk. I could snap a tree in half right now, but sure, let’s pretend I need her help.

After a few minutes, she’s back, a black coffee mug in one hand, her other hand clasped shut – presumably around the pain pills. “I presume you take your coffee like your demeanor, black and overpowering,” she says with a slight smirk as she hands me the mug and drops the pills into my awaiting opposite hand.

“In fact, I like my coffee like my women: sweet, full–bodied, and at least once a day.” Her brain does that misfiring thing again, and I pat myself on the back internally.

Without saying a word, she rushes from the room before I hear her footsteps stomp up the stairs. Rising to my feet, without any theatrics this time, and not needing to take the pills, I slip them into my pants pocket.

I begin exploring her living room while sipping the coffee, and her bookcase catches my eye. I choke on the hot liquid when I notice the genre that’s most prominently stacked on the various shelves: vampire romance. Oh, my little pet, this will be so much fun.

When I hear her coming down the stairs a little while later, I return to the couch and dramatically clutch my side as if I’m in immense pain. When she enters the room, the look of concern is evident when she sees I’m “distressed“.

“Did you drink the pills?” she asks as she comes over, grabs a throw pillow from underneath the bay window, and fluffs it up before placing it against the arm of the couch. Not giving me a chance to answer, she takes hold of my shoulders and pushes me so my head rests on the pillow. My feet she lifts so they are dangling off the side of the opposite couch arm. “Rest, I’ll rustle you up something to eat; it should help the meds

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