Into Their Woods (The Eerie, #1)(45)

My throat tightens as I study the feast, my eyes darting up to Ruger where I then study him. I totally pegged him wrong, thinking gearhead or military or anything but chef. I’m going to start fixing all those assumptions right now. “Which one of these is your favorite meal?” I ask as I precariously cut a bite of ribeye, trying not to slice right through the bottom of the to-go container.

When I put it in my mouth, I have to stop myself from closing my eyes and moaning. Damn. I want to shove my entire face into the to-go box and gorge. But I keep my shit together and manage to cut another polite bite instead of picking up the steak with my hands and tearing into it, which my body suddenly sees as a totally reasonable option.

He’s watching me eat—no, not just eat—he’s watching me savor every bite like its foreplay. Those eyes of his are on my lips, and I can see he’s stopped breathing. His hands tense with restraint as I lick away a tiny crumb from my lips.

My nipples pebble and a pleased hum vibrates inside my chest at his attention.

“I think I have a new favorite,” he murmurs.

A warm sensation starts to drip down my body, pooling in places it’s not polite to talk about while having a floor picnic with someone you barely know.

I try to breathe through this odd rush of attraction. It’s not like I’ve never felt attraction before, but never anything even close to this. I stare up at him and my eyes grow hooded. Some new scent in the hallway starts to mix with the delicious smell of the food, and I realize—with a start—that it’s the scent of desire.

How or why I know that, I have no clue.

Clearing my throat, I gesture to the food, trying to break whatever spell just bippity boppity booed all over this hallway. “You’re not going to eat?” I glance around at the food boxes, and what seemed like way too many when he first arrived now seems like it’s one short of filling me up. A surge of possessiveness comes over me, but I bat it down.

His heated green gaze flicks from my lips to my eyes. “No, you eat whatever you want, I’ll take what’s left over.”

I snort at his answer. “If I eat everything I want, there won’t be anything left over.”

“Good. I brought dessert too,” he tells me, gesturing toward a bag next to him that I hadn’t noticed was still full.

“Well, well, Ruger. Flowers, lunch, and dessert…you’re playing for keeps,” I tease, digging my fork into the fluffiest mashed potatoes I’ve ever had.

“Who’s playing?” he quips back, determination written all over his face.

I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. Instead, I keep my mouth plenty full with his creations, each one so good I couldn’t pick a favorite if I tried.

“What about you? Where does the story of Noah Lupescu begin?”

I chuckle at the dramatic question and do my best to sound like some library storyteller. Waving my fork, I say, “I was born on a moonless night, one so dark even the stars were afraid to shine too brightly. A clap of thunder is the first thing I heard coming into this world, and my life has been nothing but a raging storm ever since.”

Ruger laughs and I savor the sound of his amusement like I savor his food. My answering smile is undeniable, and I decide to get comfortable, stretching out my legs and mirroring his position. This is surprisingly nice. Intense, but in a good—if slightly intimidating—way.

I take a second and ponder my real answer to his question. “Honestly, there’s not much to tell. My mom died when I was eleven. She didn’t have any family, so I became a ward of the state.”

“What about your dad?”

I shrug. “My mom would never talk about him, no matter how much I pushed. I—unfortunately—don’t remember anything about the guy. I saw in a movie once the leading lady had this box she kept of love letters and pictures. I searched every nook and cranny in our house for a month and never found the box of answers I was convinced existed. Turns out, real life isn’t a romance movie, go figure.”

Ruger huffs out a chuckle. “Paranormal romance maybe.”

“True. Guess I should have watched more Supernatural,” I admit, cracking up.

“Any sign your mom was a shifter?” he asks.

I sigh and pull at a string that’s sticking out from the hem of my shirt. “I’ve tried to think, to see if there was something I missed because I didn’t know what I was looking at back then, but it was so long ago,” I admit, and Ruger nods. “How does it work? Were both my parents…”

“At least one had to be, that’s for sure. You’re strong though, very strong, which makes this situation all the more curious.”

“How so?”

“Well, it might mean that both your parents were shifters. Strong magic from both sides could explain your ridiculously quick transition. It normally takes two weeks. Or…” Ruger hesitates for a moment, his eyes contemplative. “Or your super speed might have nothing to do with bloodlines and everything to do with the block instead. Maybe you didn’t need a propellant bite to wake up your wolf. Maybe you needed a bite to break the block and free it.”

“Isn’t that practically the same thing?” I question. “Whether it’s a bite to activate dormant shifter genes or to break a spell, wolfing out is still the result.”