Blood Kiss

And what do you know, Peyton was waiting outside the weight room for him.

Muttering under his breath, Craeg braced himself to fight the guy again.

“When did it happen?” the guy demanded.

“When did what happen.”

“You and her.”

The other male was staring up at him with a strange calmness that could have meant acceptance or preparation for attack. Funny, those perfect J.Crew looks and that aristocratic entitlement attitude, coupled with the whole fancy background, made the guy a much better eHarmony candidate for a female.

And yet Paradise, for some reason, had chosen Craeg.

She had to be nuts.

“There’s nothing going on between us,” Craeg said.

“Don’t fucking bullshit me, okay? You’ve bonded with her.”

“The fuck I have.”

Peyton’s blue stare made a trip around the world. Then he frowned. “Wait, you’re serious.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You honestly don’t recognize it. You’re not aware that your bonding scent’s been triggered—or of the fact that you bared your fangs at all of us when we went over to help her. You are honestly fucking unaware of all that.”

Craeg blinked like a cow for a little bit. Then he looked to the left of the guy and measured the distance between his own forehead and the concrete block wall. Maybe if he hit his skull hard enough, he could cause sufficient brain damage that his short-term memory would give him a break and he could forget he’d ever met that female.

Peyton started to laugh. “You know, I want to hate you, I really fucking do. She’s one of the best females I’ve ever known. Instead, I feel bad for you.”

“Why’s that,” Craeg snapped.

“Because you’re so far gone and you’re still fighting it. This is going to be fun to watch.”

“So glad I can amuse you.”

Peyton had the gall to clap him on the shoulder. “You’d better take care of her properly—or I will hunt you down and kill you. Slowly.”

Craeg stepped back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure you don’t.”

Peyton was still laughing as he turned away to open the door.

Craeg caught hold of the guy. “How do you know her?”

There was a pause. “She works at the audience house.”

“That’s how I met her, too.”

“Just so we’re clear, sometimes I think I’m in love with her, too.” Peyton rolled his eyes again. “God, will you stop with that?”

“With what.”

“You’re snarling at me.”

Huh. What do you know. His fangs had dropped and his upper lip had curled back. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, you’re not bonded. Not at all.” Peyton crossed his arms over his chest. “Anyway, before you go Cujo on my ass, I’ve never even kissed her. It’s not there for her. Toward me, at any rate. Just as well—I’m a total fucking asshole—and she’s right, I got a couple of bad habits. Anyway, remember what I said.”

“And here I was, hoping we could both forget this conversation.”

“Never going to happen, my man.” Abruptly, Peyton’s eyes narrowed and pure aggression shone out of them. “Anyone who hurts that female is an enemy of mine. And I might be an aristocrat, but I am capable of going straight-up animal to protect what’s mine. Got it?”

Craeg measured the guy. “I can’t promise anything.”

“What’s that supposed to mean.”

“I have … things … I need to do after this, and they don’t include settling down and taking a mate. Bonding or no bonding, nothing is going to change that reality. Not even her—and she knows this.”

Peyton’s voice dropped until it was so deep, it was barely audible. “Then you are a fool. You are a dumb motherfucking fool.” Except then the guy shrugged. “But hey, that’s good news. It means I might still have a chance with her. And before I have to give you a distemper shot, fuck you. You walk away, it’s on you, asshole—and I promise you, I will make a play for her serious, like.”

As Craeg’s inner beast stood up and roared, it was probably best that the male walked back into the weight room at that point.

Yup.

They already had one trainee in the clinic. The class didn’t need two.

Especially if that second one had to be brought there in pieces.

Chapter Thirty-four

Marissa talked to Butch all night long.

Even as she conducted her staff meeting, interviewed a mental health caseworker for a job, and had a little visit with Mary, in the back of her mind, she was talking to Butch.

The imaginary scenes of her going all righteous on his omissioning ass were marked with a sound track of him agreeing with her that he was a douche bag who needed twelve kinds of therapy. The fact that, over the course of the hours, he called her three times and texted her twice didn’t help his cause—then again, he could have had Perry Mason pleading his case and he would still have ended up in prison for life without the possibility of ever getting laid by his shellan again.

She hadn’t returned any of his fingers-doing-the-walking, and she told herself she was shutting him out because she wanted to choose her words carefully first. The reality was far less laudible: She felt hurt by him, rejected by him, set aside by him, and she wanted him to get a sense firsthand for how that felt.