Not to mention that in addition to all of their differences, he had another female out there who had some cosmic destiny to be his.
Emma was up for a little healthy competition, but against a Lykae's mate...?
Well. Now she was just being silly -
He knocked on the adjoining door, opening it without a decent pause, but luckily she'd cut out all that lolling and petting her br**sts business.
His hair was wet from a recent shower, and he leaned against the doorway in jeans that rode just a little below his waist and just a little loose - as they should. He wore no shirt and she noticed one of his palms had a knot of cloth around it. She swallowed. Injured from when he'd cracked her headboard as he came.
He crossed his arms over that muscled chest. Her appreciation for it bordered on idolatry. She would so give him another amen...
"Tell me one thing about you that I doona know," he demanded.
When able to force her gaze to his face, she debated, then finally said, "I went to college and got a degree in popular culture."
He appeared impressed, but of course he hadn't been around this time long enough to know that most people thought pop culture was a do-you-want-fries-with-that degree. He nodded, turning toward his room, and because he didn't expect her to, she said, "Tell me one thing."
When he faced her again, he did appear surprised she'd asked. His voice gravelly, he answered, "I think you're the most beautiful creature I've ever seen."
She was certain he heard her gasp before he closed the door.
He'd called her beautiful!
Before, she'd only felt a sad resignation, but now she was giddy. Oh, she was in a bad way. Her emotions were like a crazy compass dial, spinning wildly -
She narrowed her eyes, realizing what this was. Stockholm syndrome. Surely. Identifying with your bullying captor? Check. Forming an attachment to him? Check.
But in all fairness to herself, how many captors - actively acquiring - were six-and-a-half-foot-tall gods with delicious, sun-darkened skin, the coolest accent, and the warmest, hardest body she'd ever dreamed of? All this and the predilection to wrap that body around her? All this and he thought she was beautiful.
Not to mention the fact that he couldn't seem to give her enough of his luscious blood.
Was she becoming this Lykae's Patty Hearst?
Didn't matter. The bottom line was that she wasn't his mate, so even if he did seduce her and they had a little some-something going on, she'd be merely idling time until he found his true one. And if she got herself nailed and bailed by a man like Lachlain, she thought she might turn into one of those blubbery, weepy females. Which was not an option.
She was relieved she wasn't this mate of his. She was. If she had been his mate, it would have been like a life sentence. He would never let her go, she'd be browbeaten and miserable with him, and if she escaped he would come for her until her aunts finally killed him.
Her coven would delight in it. If they found out he'd kissed her and touched her intimately, they would unleash hell on him and his kind. As far as she knew, she was the only one of her coven ever to be touched by a Lykae.
And her mother had been the only one to fully succumb to a vampire.
Emma woke at sunset, sensing something.
She scanned the darkened room, popping up her head, peeking over the side of the bed, but saw nothing. She told herself it was nothing, even as she hastily dressed and packed, then rushed to Lachlain's room.
She found him still clad only in those jeans, with no blanket to cover him because he'd used his to secure her window. Right before her eyes, he began shuddering as though in the grip of a nightmare. He rumbled words in Gaelic, and his skin grew slick with sweat. All the muscles in his body tensed as if he was in great pain.
"Lachlain?" she whispered. Without thought, she hurried to him, reaching out to run her fingers down his cheek and through his thick hair, trying to soothe him.
He did still. "Emmaline," he murmured, without waking. Was she in his dreams?
She herself had had a doozy of a dream, the most realistic one she'd ever experienced.
She absently stroked his forehead as she recalled it. It seemed to be from Lachlain's point of view - she could see things that he saw, smell scents he smelled, feel as though with his fingers.
He was in a shop under a tent. Jewels were spread before him, and a beautiful woman with long, coffee-colored hair streaked from the sun and sparkling green eyes was by his side.
He selected a pounded-gold and sapphire necklace and purchased it from the shopkeeper. By the design of the jewelry and the currency he used, Emma knew this was long ago.
The woman sighed and said, "More gifts."
"Aye." Lachlain was irritated with her because he knew what she was about to say.
The woman, whose name Emma somehow knew was Cassandra, said, "Nine hundred years you've waited. I've waited almost as long. Do you no' think that we - "
"No," Lachlain interrupted sharply. How many times will she broach this? he thought.
Cassandra might not believe, but he did.
"I'd accept a night with you."
"I doona see you as more than an old friend. Know that that can end." His ire was growing. "And you are of the clan and will meet her. Do you possibly think that I would put her in that uncomfortable position?"
Emma shook her head at the bizarre dream, still thrown by how authentic it had felt. He only had to mention jewelry and she was dreaming up wonky scenarios.
She glanced down and saw with a blush that she'd begun stroking his chest. She didn't stop, just marveled at how gorgeous his body was, marveled that he wanted to make love to her with it -
His hand shot to her neck, tightening before she could scream.