feet away, cast in shadow, is a figure that feels achingly familiar, but that I know I’ve never seen before. Not in real life.
When he steps forward, another motion-sensor garage light turns on. Like a stage light it illuminates him.
Orion North.
My mate.
Chapter Eleven
“Perhaps the most famous and most hotly debated weremate is Queen Elizabeth herself and her rumored “lion.” Some say that there is nothing to support that she was protected by a powerful werelion who stopped numerous assassination attempts, others say that it is a dangerous historical precedent to set that the only way a woman might gain strength is to submit to a man—or a werebeast.
To the first point, I direct the reader to Her Majesty’s diaries. To the latter point I say this: not all strong women are weremates, but all women who are weremates are, in one way or another, strong.”
Beasts, Blood & Bonds: A History of Werebeasts and their Mates
By Dr. Nina M. Strike
Orion North is the only dream I’ve ever had that became more beautiful by coming true. Reality doesn’t taint him with its grime or complexity; he looks heartbreakingly striking and savage, even as he stands in a suburban alleyway. Water droplets shimmer as they drip from his starlight-colored hair, down his neck and finally around his deeply chiseled abs, but he doesn’t seem to care. If anything, he likes the way his soaking jeans cling to him in a way that seems more indecent than if he were wearing nothing at all.
He smiles at me. The edges of his sharp canines peek out over his lips as his eyes skate over my form for a moment, but they don’t rest on my body long.
Instead, he stares deep into my eyes, searching for something. And I know he doesn’t want just my body. He wants something else, too. That lost piece of me, the thing I had tapped while I sang in the bar and even a little bit while I dreamed.
He wants my soul.
I run.
I don’t run gracefully. I tear through the drowned alley, not stopping for my bike, or the burning in my lungs, or to listen to the sound coming from just behind me. Steady, splashing, footsteps.
He’s coming. Oh, God. And the most horrifying part? Some betraying part of me wants him to, relishes the hope that he’ll chase me and force me down onto my back and mark me as his.
I push my way through the lingering fog and the heavy darkness. My foot catches on the same pothole I hit earlier, sending me falling. Behind me the splashing continues. I close my eyes, meaning only to take a second’s rest, but by the time I open them, it’s too late.
He stops before me. All I can see of him are his powerful legs, twin lines leading upwards towards his crotch. I drop my gaze instantly, realizing that I’m almost eye level with his zipper.
“Hello there, Artemis.” To my surprise, he crouches down in front of me, although even then I have to look up to see into his eyes. He’s so close that I can see a hint of stubble on his face. What would it feel like against my cheek? No. I should run. I should—
“Look at me.” His large hand reaches out and gently brushes against the underside of my jaw. “You’re mine now.”
Like the dream, his eyes sear into me, flickering with far more colors than they should, like windows into some other world. Looking into them feels like leaving and coming home all at once.
“Don’t be afraid. I don’t hurt what’s mine,” he says.
“I’m not…“
“Yes?” His pupils dilate.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Really?” In a movement that is surprisingly graceful for how large and well-muscled he is, he bends over to whisper in my ear. “Then why did you run?”
His breath overwhelms me, sharp, cold, laced with mint and pine, and something darker, something almost alcoholic. If I had an answer to his question, it disappears with his nearness.
“Answer me,” he commands softly, his voice ragged with primal hunger.
My body shakes with an answering
When he steps forward, another motion-sensor garage light turns on. Like a stage light it illuminates him.
Orion North.
My mate.
Chapter Eleven
“Perhaps the most famous and most hotly debated weremate is Queen Elizabeth herself and her rumored “lion.” Some say that there is nothing to support that she was protected by a powerful werelion who stopped numerous assassination attempts, others say that it is a dangerous historical precedent to set that the only way a woman might gain strength is to submit to a man—or a werebeast.
To the first point, I direct the reader to Her Majesty’s diaries. To the latter point I say this: not all strong women are weremates, but all women who are weremates are, in one way or another, strong.”
Beasts, Blood & Bonds: A History of Werebeasts and their Mates
By Dr. Nina M. Strike
Orion North is the only dream I’ve ever had that became more beautiful by coming true. Reality doesn’t taint him with its grime or complexity; he looks heartbreakingly striking and savage, even as he stands in a suburban alleyway. Water droplets shimmer as they drip from his starlight-colored hair, down his neck and finally around his deeply chiseled abs, but he doesn’t seem to care. If anything, he likes the way his soaking jeans cling to him in a way that seems more indecent than if he were wearing nothing at all.
He smiles at me. The edges of his sharp canines peek out over his lips as his eyes skate over my form for a moment, but they don’t rest on my body long.
Instead, he stares deep into my eyes, searching for something. And I know he doesn’t want just my body. He wants something else, too. That lost piece of me, the thing I had tapped while I sang in the bar and even a little bit while I dreamed.
He wants my soul.
I run.
I don’t run gracefully. I tear through the drowned alley, not stopping for my bike, or the burning in my lungs, or to listen to the sound coming from just behind me. Steady, splashing, footsteps.
He’s coming. Oh, God. And the most horrifying part? Some betraying part of me wants him to, relishes the hope that he’ll chase me and force me down onto my back and mark me as his.
I push my way through the lingering fog and the heavy darkness. My foot catches on the same pothole I hit earlier, sending me falling. Behind me the splashing continues. I close my eyes, meaning only to take a second’s rest, but by the time I open them, it’s too late.
He stops before me. All I can see of him are his powerful legs, twin lines leading upwards towards his crotch. I drop my gaze instantly, realizing that I’m almost eye level with his zipper.
“Hello there, Artemis.” To my surprise, he crouches down in front of me, although even then I have to look up to see into his eyes. He’s so close that I can see a hint of stubble on his face. What would it feel like against my cheek? No. I should run. I should—
“Look at me.” His large hand reaches out and gently brushes against the underside of my jaw. “You’re mine now.”
Like the dream, his eyes sear into me, flickering with far more colors than they should, like windows into some other world. Looking into them feels like leaving and coming home all at once.
“Don’t be afraid. I don’t hurt what’s mine,” he says.
“I’m not…“
“Yes?” His pupils dilate.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Really?” In a movement that is surprisingly graceful for how large and well-muscled he is, he bends over to whisper in my ear. “Then why did you run?”
His breath overwhelms me, sharp, cold, laced with mint and pine, and something darker, something almost alcoholic. If I had an answer to his question, it disappears with his nearness.
“Answer me,” he commands softly, his voice ragged with primal hunger.
My body shakes with an answering
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