Runaway Rogue

Chapter Nine: Caspian's POV

His mate. His mate was in his house. He felt like he had a thousand smaller versions of himself screaming, running around internally. Each one had a different idea of what he should do or say. Should he lean against the wall and smolder at her? Did he even know how to do that? Was his house messy? He had always thought he was reasonably clean, but now he could see dust on the baseboards and small scuffs in the paint that he hadn't bothered to patch up.

And while he was staring at her, entirely entranced and at least a little confused, she was moving through his kitchen like she owned it. Somehow, her hands knew where to search. She opened the fridge and scanned the feeble contents. Nothing made him feel more like a bachelor than seeing how little food was there.

She was unfazed, bending over to grab something. He didn't care what. it felt like he was in puberty all over again, his eyes sliding over the length of her back and the curve of her butt. He knew that he would be attracted to his mate, but this was beyond anything she could have anticipated. Had he allowed his instincts to rule, he would have held her there and pulled her hips back against his pelvis.

Too bad when he looked at her, he could hear the screams of all the people who had been slaughtered. Too bad when he caught a whiff of that awful rotting scent, he was taken back to the day that changed the course of his life and ended dozens of others.

"I hope you have tequila," she sighed, her voice ringing in his ear like a hypnotic bell.

He could only nod mutely, pointing to the cabinet where his liquor stash lived. It was a tall shelf and though he couldn't describe her as small, she had to reach on her tiptoes to get it. Her plain tee shirt lifted and he felt his knees weaken a little when there was a pale flash of skin right about her jeans.

"You aren't dressed to go for a casual run," Caspian commented, taking in her clothes. It wasn't like she was ready for a ball either, but since the introduction of athletic wear, he had yet to see someone partake in a light jog in jeans.

"That's the first thing you want to say to your mate?" she asked. Her voice was smoky, reminding him of old Hollywood movies and sultry actresses.

No, probably not, he decided. "We exchanged a few words already," he commented. "You might not remember it too well; you were busy holding an axe against my neck and threatening me."

She fumbled around the kitchen for a second before finding the cabinet that housed his glasses. Her catlike eyes shot up to him for a brief second and he could have sworn that there was a grin just below the surface. For a brief second, he thought that if she laughed or gave him a full on grin, he would melt into a puddle.

"It was not exactly a scheduled gym session," she confessed, mixing her ingredients together. Grapefruit soda, a little lemon, and some tequila. "Want one?"

"Yes."

It probably wasn't the best choice, but he didn't know what to do with his body, or his mouth, or his mind. He wanted to grab her hips, push her against a counter and kiss her until they were both breathless, until he memorized exactly what she tasted like. But there was something about her fiery expression that made him think that it might be a bad idea.

Part of him wanted to go after the tiny rogue she had come with. Or just grill her about what she wanted, how she ended up on his packlands, why she would sacrifice herself for another when rogues were relatively solitary. And he wanted to know why she had run from him when she had been going through heat. Surely, meeting her in the woods that night would have been smoother than this.

Mostly, he just wanted to go to sleep, because part of him could not believe that she was here in front of him. This was a dream, a figment of his imagination, a nightmare that came to haunt him when he was overtired.