Into Their Woods (The Eerie, #1)(41)

Perth’s eyes widen with horrified dismay, his head shaking before he answers, “Noah, I’d never, I mean never, take advantage of you. And Ruger would kill himself before—No. No, we did not. You were asleep. We were there because skin-to-skin contact helps bond a newly bitten shifter to their den.”

His adamance eases something sharp that I didn’t even realize was stuck underneath my ribs until it pulls away, like the tip of a dagger had been poised just there, waiting for its opportunity to hurt me. I let out a sigh of relief that makes my shoulders relax, though it’s accompanied by the tiniest sliver of disappointment.

What the fuck?

“Don’t get me wrong,” he continues, almost as if he realizes his insistence might come across as rejection. “I would fucking love to. You’re gorgeous and obviously capable and strong, but I’m a big proponent of enthusiastic consent.”

I start closing the door, but he whispers, “…bordering on begging.”

Wait. What?

I reopen it and stare at him. He looks at me evenly, steadily, as though he didn’t just mumble something under his breath. Something that has unwelcome heat flaring between my thighs and a slight blush tinting my cheeks.

“Why are you guys out here? Are you making sure I don’t escape? What is this?” I demand, suddenly flushed. I wave at where he’s sitting, all casual and calm-like, whispering dirty things and staring at my closed door like it’s the most riveting thing ever.

“No, you’re free to go wherever you want. I won’t stop you. Neither will anyone else,” he answers warmly.

My scowl doesn’t seem to faze him, and I’m not sure if I like that or find it annoying.

Annoying. Definitely annoying.

“So, I can skip town and it’s no big deal?” I challenge.

Perth shrugs. “If you want. I haven’t been on a trip in a while, so I’m game,” he counters nonchalantly.

I smile smugly like I’ve caught him. “So, you’re a designated babysitter, or should I call it naif-sitting.”

He scoffs and leans back in the chair, crossing his ankles and pressing his palms to his thick thighs like he’s getting comfortable. “Just keeping an eye out and making myself available to my mate.”

I go stiff at the term, and it seems to make his smile stretch wider across his stupidly handsome face.

Is he trying to unsettle me? Crap. Is it working?

I straighten my spine and refuse to take the bait, or try not to anyway. The glimmer in Perth’s eyes makes me think he’s not going to make it easy.

“The thing about a mate claim is that it brings out certain instincts. It’s hard to be apart, hard to even consider leaving your mate alone, vulnerable, unprotected,” he tells me, his tone lowering more into a growl with each word. His eyes start to glow slightly, and his posture grows tense.

I barely breathe as he shows me a peek of the monster lurking underneath. But what catches me off guard is there’s a part of me, one I’ve never felt before, that’s responding to it…and it’s not fear I’m feeling. There is a distinct heat in my lower belly that has nothing to do with fright. Except for the fact that I’m scared of having that feeling in the first place.

Perth gives his head a small shake, and the tension bleeds right out of him and he relaxes back in the chair.

“That’s all this is,” he continues airily, like all of that is no big deal. “We’re here if you need anything.”

I study him and try not to fidget.

“Do you need anything, Noah?” he presses, a wicked smile stretching across his face and highlighting the mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

I shut the door without answering and immediately walk away, needing space.

So much space. And maybe a cold shower.





He has a Red Hots smile, I realize as I watch Ellery from the spyhole in my door. He’s got the kind of grin that burns the inside of your mouth while still tasting oh-so-sweet, just like the candy. It’s unfair. How am I supposed to ignore him when he looks like that?

Giving a defeated sigh, because I already know I’ve lost this battle, I move away from the peephole.

Opening my door to greet him, I quip, “You always make nightly house calls, Sheriff?”

A hint of a smile starts at one corner of his mouth. “I do when it involves my mate,” he retorts.

Shit. There’s that word again. And why do I feel like that statement was loaded with double entendre?

Preemptively, he holds up a hand before I say something to refute the mate part.

I hold my tongue only because I want more information. Yesterday, when he said he couldn’t find any of my things, I felt hopeless. Pissed. I hate that someone stole my things. I don’t like thinking about someone in my car. Using my phone. What if they hacked it and are looking at all my messages? And without my Bronco, I feel trapped.

I’ve been fighting that feeling by ignoring it and watching reruns of The Office all day as I try to bury my head in the sand like an ostrich. I could really use some good news tonight.

But the second his expression turns serious, I know I’m not going to get what I want.

“We pulled video feeds from all the nearby stores. I had vampires review them—their night vision is unmatched—but we couldn’t get an ID on the driver. There’s footage of your car leaving Main Street, but it’s only from behind.”