“Oh!” Tania whacked her on the arm with the back of her hand. As J. J. said “ow,” her sister hopped off the stool and made a beeline across the kitchen. A second before she disappeared into the corridor, she said over her shoulder, “Come on, baby J. They’re home.”
No doubt as to who “they” were.
Her first clue? Her sister’s excitement and speedy exit. The second indication? The clang of dishes from the dining room as Myst and Angela abandoned table-setting duty and, skirting the end of the massive table, made tracks in her sister’s wake. Watching the mass exodus, J. J. slid off her perch but stayed put. No sense jumping the gun. Or making a fool of herself when she didn’t know where she stood…
Or if Wick wanted her to greet him.
The assumption seemed like a stretch. But then, everything did when it came to him. It was an odd state to be in… wanting to get to know him better without having any clue how to go about it.
Balancing on her good leg, J. J. nibbled on the inside of her lip, debating what to do. Go or stay? Be safe or bold? She glanced toward Daimler, hoping for a bailout. An expectant expression on his elfish face, he raised a brow. Well, wasn’t that a kick in the pants? As helpful as the Numbai had been over the last few hours, he refused to give her any clues. Instead, he remained silent as stone, no doubt waiting to see which way she would hop.
J. J. glared at him. Flipping elf. He looked as though he was enjoying—
“Ah, Master Wick,” Daimler murmured, a knowing twinkle in his eyes. “Welcome home.”
A death grip on the edge of the countertop, her attention snapped toward the opposite end of the kitchen and… oh my. Lord have mercy. Wick in all his glory, looking better than the cupcakes she’d made, and twice as sweet. His golden gaze raked over her. Her heart went AWOL, dipping low only to rebound into her throat. He skimmed her again, making her feel as though she’d just been strip-searched. Stripped bare within a blink of an eye… all without him touching her.
Dear lord. She’d never experienced anything like it. Or him. He made her burn just looking at him, and in that moment, she understood primal attraction. Grasped the magnitude and rawness that pulled her into his orbit. Accepted the need. Reveled in the want. Felt the underlying tug as fate locked her into place.
Completely ridiculous? Nothing but hocus-pocus infused balderdash?
Maybe. Maybe not. All J. J. knew was that she didn’t want to fight it. Exploring it sounded way more fun.
Drawing a deep breath, J. J. opened her mouth to greet him and—
“I’ll be in my room.”
She blinked.
Daimler nodded. “Very good, Master Wick. I’ll see to your supper.”
And just like that, he was gone, heavy footfalls echoing as he turned and strode into yet another corridor.
J. J.’s brows collided. A moment later, she scowled at the empty spot where he’d stood. “What the heck was that?”
“Go after him, my lady. But before you do, I would ask one thing of you.”
“What’s that?” Frustration riding shotgun, J. J. limped around the end of the island.
“Be patient with him,” Daimler said, giving her pause. “He’s had a hard life, one I believe you will understand better than most. Better than any female, in fact, so… please, be patient, my lady. He needs you more than he knows.”
The entreaty settled her down.
She understood hardship. Had lived with the reality day in and day out… and now with the memory of it. She would never forget its effects. Or the chaos it left in the aftermath. So, no problem. She could be gentle—tough, patient—whatever Wick needed. Forbearance, after all, was her friend. But as she hobbled out of the kitchen and into the corridor, doubt came calling. What if he turned her away? Not an improbable outcome considering he’d just taken one look at her and run in the opposite direction.
Wick registered her presence long before she approached his bedroom. Standing in front of his easel, his gaze riveted to the door, he wiped his hands on a rag that had seen better days. Stained with old paint, frayed around the edges, the cotton served as his catchall. Something he used while painting during the day. Tossing the scrap of cloth on the table beside him, he plucked his favorite brush from a large mason jar. Wood rattled against the glass rim. The familiar sound did nothing to break his fixation. His senses were too attuned… on fire for a female he craved, but knew he didn’t deserve.
He should turn her away. Be safe. Act sensibly. Do the right thing and leave her locked on the other side of his door. As far away from him as possible.
Sounded like a plan, but for one huge problem.
He wanted her too much. Needed to know what made her so different from other females. Yearned to touch her again and discover if it was all in his head. Or if Jamison was as incredible as she seemed, able to banish his phobia—stoke his appetite, interest his dragon half by the simple virtue of existing.
Drawing his thumb over boar-hair bristles, Wick frowned at the painting he’d been working on for days. Almost finished, the urban landscape called for a few more details. The final touches, a series of well-placed highlights that would take it from good to great. As he studied the piece, he brushed his hand over his bare chest and waited, heart thumping, half holding his breath, hoping the knock would come. Would she be brave enough? Did she really want to know—about him, about them, about what it meant to cross the threshold and enter his domain?
Wick blew out a long breath. No mercy. That’s what it meant. What she would get. What he would give her if she chose to walk toward him instead of away. Unfair? Probably. But he didn’t care. Despite his phobia, he wasn’t a coward. And with curiosity running rampant, Wick refused to back away. He wanted to explore. Take a closer look at the growing connection between them and identify the variables.
Which… yeah… put Jamison in the hot seat.
The soft thud of uneven footsteps stopped outside his door.
The muscles bracketing his spine tightened. The moment of truth. Would she? Or wouldn’t she?
Knuckles struck wood, the sound hesitant yet somehow certain at the same time. His mouth curved even as he shook his head. And there it was… the answer. Bold, beautiful Jamison had just gone all in, playing her hand, dealing him his, sealing her fate. The realization made him nervous. Yet even as his stomach dipped, excitement circled too, making him buzz with sensation. On a precipice. He stood on the edge, the need to jump battling the fear of falling.
The soft knock came again.
“Go easy.” Rolling his shoulders, he attacked the tension, forcing himself to relax. But it was hard. The brief glimpse of her in the kitchen had wound him tight. “Don’t scare her.”
Sound advice. A good strategy going forward too.
Wick heeded both and unleashed his magic. With a sharp mental flick, the dead bolt flipped open. A moment later, the door swung wide and… oh fuck. Could she be any more beautiful? Even in too-big sweats and a faded T-shirt, she looked incredible. Fresh-faced without an ounce of makeup to hide her beauty. Strong. Sure. Beyond sexy with her dark hair cascading around her slim shoulders.
Eyes bluer than a cloudless sky met his. His heart rebounded, trying to escape through the center of his chest as she looked him over. Gaze traveling, she showed no mercy, skimming over exposed skin to move to his paint-splattered jeans. She stared at his bare feet a moment before her lips tipped up at the corners.
Wick swallowed past the knot in his throat. Ah, hell. Talk about bad etiquette. He was half-dressed, for fuck’s sake. “Shit. Sorry. I’ll put a shirt on.”