“I’m not—”
“You’re keeping a secret. A big one.”
His big frame tensed. Heavy muscles rippled, pressing into her as unease entered his eyes, making already dark shift to pitch black. “Fergie—”
“We’re connected now, you and I.”
“Aye.”
“You wanted me to feel it, and I do.”
“I feel you too, lass.”
“Then you gotta know you’re not fooling me. I sense it. Hidden away, buried deep, like a thorn in your paw. It’s bothering you…worrying you, killing you a little at a time,” she said, fighting to keep her tone even in the face of his growing ferocity. He owned a temper, an explosive one—she’d witnessed its nastiness firsthand. Hopefully, she wouldn’t see it again…at least, not directed at her. “I’m guessing it has something to do with why you want The White Hare. You think buying it will solve your problem, but—”
“Lass—”
“—it won’t.”
“Fuck.”
“It won’t, Kruger,” she said, hooking her knee higher around his hip. Calf nestled against the small of his back, she set her hands on his chest and gave him a gentle shove. He rolled onto his back. She quivered as he slid out of her, but stayed on task and settled astride him. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not pushing. The secret’s yours to keep or share. I just wanted you to know I know, and…I’m here when you’re ready.”
His hands flexed on her hips. “Jesus, lass.”
“Whatever’s going on,” she whispered, “you can talk to me. We’ll figure it out together.”
Brow furrowed, he looked away. A muscle twitched in his jaw.
Lifting her hand, she smoothed the twitch with her fingertips. “It’s going to be okay.”
“You psychic now?”
“No idea.” She could be—not much of a stretch, given all the changes she was experiencing. She already saw ghosts. Maybe clairvoyance came part and parcel with running an inn full of supernatural creatures with violent tendencies and few scruples. “Maybe that’s what I’m turning out to be. Might come in handy if the pride of werelions on the third floor decide to eat somebody. Cut them off at the pass.”
“Fucking hell,” he growled, amusement creeping into his tone.
“I’m guessing one of the water nymphs.” She kept going, letting the heavier topic slide in favor of lightening the mood. “Or Ascot.”
“Who’s Ascot?”
“The concierge.”
“The giant rat?”
“Chinchilla, actually, but yeah.”
“No one would miss him,” Kruger muttered, gathering her long hair in his hand.
“Hendrix might.”
“Doubtful.”
She grinned at him.
Fingers playing in the bright red strands, Kruger tugged at her scalp, then cupped the nape of her neck. He drew her down, tucking her head beneath his chin, her cheek against his chest, then reached out. Grabbing the corner of the comforter, he yanked the covers over them. “No more talking. Time for sleep.”
“Cowboy—”
“Sleep, fazleima.”
Ferguson hesitated, trying to decide. Let him get away with avoiding the issue? Or dig for answers with the aim of extracting the thorn from his paw? She debated a moment, then let it go. For now. She’d said what she needed to say. He hadn’t liked it, but she knew he’d heard her. Pressing him right now wouldn’t land him—or her—anywhere good. Tomorrow would be soon enough to dig deep, open old wounds, and heal the hurt.
With a wiggle, she closed her eyes and snuggled in. “`Night, Kruger.”
“Sweet dreams, lass.”
Two days ago, she would’ve sworn getting a good night’s sleep was unlikely, and sweet dreams an impossibility. But surrounded by Kruger’s heat, with his hands on her body, Ferguson had a feeling she’d sleep like a baby.
At least for tonight. Tomorrow would be another story, bringing new challenges and frustrations…along with crushing defeats. Experience was a good lesson, and she was an excellent student. The future was unpredictable, which meant she must live in the now, enjoy every second of being in Kruger’s arms before life threw her another curveball and things took a turn for the worse.
13
Flat on his back with Ferguson sprawled on top of him, Kruger stared up at the ceiling, the scent of cinnamon and sex in the air…along with a healthy amount of panic.
He could feel it circling just below the surface. The bubble and burn in his veins. The grind of unease in his heart. The overwhelming urge to run far and get there fast.
Battling the impulse, he breathed around the lump sitting like a stone in the center of his chest. Straight up, he was an arsehole, the lowest of the low for giving Ferguson the wrong impression—for encouraging her, for calling her precious, for pushing his claim and telling her he planned to stay.
He clenched his teeth. “Bloody hell.”
He was an arsehole.
Shame burned through him as he replayed his conversation with her. Guilt joined the stampeding parade trampling his good sense. Goddess strike him dead—he’d made her say it out loud, even forced her to repeat his words, so caught up in the moment he’d wanted nothing more than for her to view herself the way he saw her: strong, smart, spirited. Worthy of the best life had to offer.
That was little more than an hour ago. Despite the chaotic twist inside his head, nothing had changed.
He stood by every word. But with quiet descending, doubt closed ranks, making him question his ability to keep her, to provide what she needed and make her happy—for more than just one night. Giving and receiving pleasure was one thing; claiming Ferguson for his own was quite another. Mating a female took time, attention, and shitloads of energy. All-out commitment. The kind he’d never wanted to make, and…
Goddamn it.
How in the hell had he allowed this to happen?
He knew better than to get involved. To take a female he couldn’t leave behind without a backward glance. Everyone he fucked knew the drill. He never minced words or hid his intentions. Brutal honesty. Mutual agreement of the rules upfront. Zero chance of a second visit. Nothing but an hour or two of pleasure and the understanding he would never stay.
He wanted to kill Wallaig. The bastard had given him bad advice.
Touching Ferguson had been a mistake. A huge one, given what happened in the aftermath: a deep connection, soul-searing acceptance, a bond so strong he could no longer do what needed to be done—get up, get out of her flat, and get on with his plan for The White Hare. As fast as fucking possible.
Dread hammered him like a mailed fist.
Kruger flinched. His arms flexed around Ferguson. Attuned to him even in sleep, she reacted to his turmoil, shifting, whispering his name, sweeping her hand across his bare chest, a light touch meant to soothe him. He closed his eyes. Goddess forgive him. She deserved better. Deserved more than he was, or had to offer. And yet he didn’t move away. He stayed where he was—planted in her bed, holding her close as he murmured to reassure her.
The sound of his voice settled her.
Satisfaction rumbled through him.