CHAPTER

Andreas paced in front of the cold wood stove and shook out the tingles from his hands and arms.

He shouldn’t have touched her, but he’d panicked. Drugging her hadn’t been ideal. No rational man would have done such a thing.

Also, he didn’t like touching people anymore. The magic that made him what he was made the effects of touch linger too long and too brutally.

What choice did I have?

She’d been too close to discovering him, and he was in hiding for a good reason.

Pausing, he looked at the unconscious woman draped over the sofa he’d covered with drop cloths. She looked comically out of place in his building’s basement. She was prim and proper, and so pretty and blond. “Perfect Viking wench.” He scoffed.

She was just like all the others in Fallon. They judged what they didn’t understand, and hated what they couldn’t have. They’d proven their narrow-mindedness when the Afótama queen had taken one of their men as a chieftain. Andreas heard the things the people in Fallon said about Oliver and Contessa. They called Oliver a traitor, and worse—but Oliver had done what he’d need to do to be happy. He’d embraced the magic and claimed what was his, even though what he’d gained had the taint of the Afótama about it. He’d joined their collective and became a part of something cooperative. He’d embraced the magic that Queen Contessa had pulled the stopper from. The long-absent power flowed from the old Viking gods back to the people they’d been ignoring for so long.

“Good for him,” Andreas spat. “Someone should get a happy ending.”

Andreas sure as shit wasn’t going to get one—not when the locals found out that the magic hadn’t stopped pooling in Norseton. It’d spread farther—all the way to Fallon, perhaps beyond. Andreas had some. He had inherited his family’s magic. Unfortunately, the Tofts’ magic was a curse that had been dormant for so long that they no longer feared it. There was no one left to tell Andreas how to control the affliction. He was the last Toft in Fallon.

He’d already been an outcast in the community because of his wealth and eccentricities. Soon, he’d likely be chased from town for being a monster—as if he’d had a choice about being one.

Staring at his statuesque captive, he knelt beside the chair and draped his forearms over his knees. She’d left countless messages for him at every number he still had, asking him to get involved in some legal scheme he didn’t give a shit about. He didn’t care how the arguing parties resolved their fender bender. In all the time the men spent quibbling over details, they could have settled the mess rationally, especially since both parties had been at fault.

They knew that. Had to.

He refused to get involved, and he needed that woman—Mary—to leave him the fuck alone.

Closing his eyes, he leaned his head left, then right, and grimaced at the cracks of his too-loose cartilage. His body hadn’t been quite right since before the magic had surged in him about three months prior. All he could surmise was that the animal inside of him wanted to be let out again.

He didn’t know what the animal was. When he was in that beastly shape, his thoughts were too disordered for him to remember to find a mirror to peer into. He’d never bothered learning the details of the family curse because he’d never thought he’d be afflicted. The curse hadn’t been seen in the family since the gods had pulled back most of their magic, and that had been seven or eight centuries in the past.

The woman—Mary—drew in a sharp breath, and her bright blue eyes flew open. Her pupils shrank, then enlarged, adapting to the dim light in the basement. She sprang upright and scooted to the far end of the sofa, as far from him as she could get.

Slowly, he twined his fingers together in front of his belly and cracked his neck again.

“What are you doing?” she snapped. “Why am I here?”

Gods, her voice…

She was always so crisp and professional when she left him those messages. Sunny, even. Her voice wasn’t sunny in his building’s basement, though. Her voice was low, and threaded with a warning he was sure she’d make good on. She’d try to, anyway. Their kind didn’t make idle threats.

He took in a long, deep breath, and then another, and pinned her in his gaze.

She didn’t flinch, but he hadn’t really expected that she would. She probably spoke with all manners of beasts as part of her job. Vikings. Bikers. Other assorted rakes.

“I would have thought you wanted to talk to me,” he said evenly. “Haven’t you been trying?”

She blinked and stared at him for several seconds, and then she looked down at the delicate gold watch on her wrist.

Of course she’d be concerned with the time. Her life was probably perfectly structured in a way his had never been. He’d had no need for structure. He had money—piles and piles of the stuff, and no urgent need to make more.

“I was passed out for three hours?” came her husky rasp of a voice. “What did you do to me?”

He clicked his neck again and stared. He liked looking at her. He’d especially liked looking at her generous backside as she climbed out of the window well, though he would have preferred the view better without the pantyhose.

Such a pity.

He clucked his tongue.

“Why do you have me here?” she asked.

That, he could answer. “You trespassed.”

“And so you assaulted me?”

“If memory serves me correctly, you were doing the assaulting.”

“You drugged me. That counts as assault.”

He shook his head. “I believe you were simply in too close a proximity to my hand. I’d been working with chemicals all morning. I certainly didn’t intend for anyone to inhale the fumes from my little renovation today.”

She ground her teeth and looked at him as though she were trying to decide how best to dissect him, or where she’d hide his parts when she was done. “You think you’re slick, don’t you?”

He pushed his lips into a grin. “I’m sure I have no clue as to what you’re accusing me of.”

“Bullshit.”

“Your word against mine. Easy enough to prove that you trespassed, however.”

She closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose, and drew in a deep breath, causing the lovely slopes of her full breasts to rise, then fall.

If he could say nothing else about Fallon, he could admit that he enjoyed the weather and how the mild temperatures facilitated the wearing of certain delicate articles of ladies’ apparel. He may have been a recluse, but he wasn’t dead. The way her sleeveless shirt made of thin, pearl-colored silk cut into a low V at the neck and swaddled her breasts made a certain part of his anatomy feel very much alive.

His hand was in front of him, reaching, and her eyes followed.

Perhaps she understood what he was reaching for even before he did.

He pulled his hand back before she could smack him. She seemed to be the kind of woman who would smack, and maybe he’d deserve the blow.

He might even have liked it.

“You’re…you’re growling,” she said. She tucked her long legs beneath her bottom and made herself smaller, or at least tried do.

He must have been frightening her.

He’d wanted to scare her—he’d wanted to make her leave him alone, but not like that. He hadn’t wanted to show anyone that part of him, and had been hoping to find some way to manage his affliction. Certainly, his ancestors had been able to control the beasts, or else the Vikings in their company would have killed them all before they could breed.

He rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes and sucked in a breath.

“What are you?” she asked.

“Same as you,” he said tiredly.

“I don’t believe you. I don’t sense you the same way I sense the others. Psychically, I can’t get any reading at all on what you’re feeling, or whether you’re telling the truth or a lie.”

He shrugged. “Not everyone here can do that.”

“I can. I have that ability, and always have.”

“Must make your job so much easier.”

“What do you know about my job?”

“You’re Mary Nissen, aren’t you? Isn’t that your dulcet voice in so many messages in my voicemail?”

She swallowed and passed a hand over the swatch of hair that had become dislodged during his relocation of her. “So you are Andreas Toft.”

He turned his hands over in concession, but didn’t offer her one to shake. He didn’t trust touching people. There had to be certain triggers to make the beast in him come out, beyond the pull of the full moon, and he hadn’t made the connections yet. One minute he’d be standing on two legs, and then he’d wake up hours later across town, cold and nude, and cowering behind a tree or dumpster.

“Mary,” he murmured, rubbing his chin and eying her from crown to toes.

“Go ahead and tell the joke.”

“Is there one?”

“There always is. Everyone has opinions about whether or not my name fits me.”

“Do you feel your name does?”

Her shrug was graceful. Practiced, maybe. “Doesn’t matter what I feel. It was given to me, and I choose to keep it.”

“Most Marys I know go by their middle names.”

She rolled her sky blue eyes to the ceiling and breathed out the most feminine scoff. “I have more than one. Which would I pick?”

“How would I know if you don’t tell me what they are?”

“I don’t tell anyone what they are. Not even the lady who does the human resources paperwork at the office knows all of them.” Mary pulled her gaze down and fixed it on him yet again. “I want you to tell me something, though. I want you to tell me why you drugged me.”

“I believe I’ve already stated my objection to that accusation.”

“Don’t try to run me around with semantics, Mr. Toft. You won’t succeed.”

“Oh, of course not. My apologies. I forgot just that quickly what manner of beasts you work for.”

“You have a problem with the practice of law?”

“I have a problem with being forced to cooperate in ordeals that have nothing to do with me.”

“I see.” She closed her eyes and leaned her head a bit to the side, then rubbed her neck as if she’d caught a cramp. “Well, then. You’ve certainly stated your objection clearly enough. I won’t bother you again.”

“And you’ll tell no one you saw me?”

“If that’s what you want? Fine.”

“I don’t believe you.”

She forced out a breath and straightened up, rubbing her neck some more. She opened her eyes, but only to slits. “What difference does it make if anyone knows I saw you?”

“Don’t concern yourself with that.”

“If you tell me not to do something, then obviously you’re instigating a concern. I need to know why I shouldn’t do something. Otherwise, I won’t be so compelled to make the effort.”

“Does honor mean nothing to you?”

“You are going way off-course with this conversation.” She closed her eyes again and tipped her head back.

He ached to run a hand down the elegant column of her neck, to drag his fingertips down into her creamy, beckoning cleavage. There wasn’t a single mar or freckle to be found there. He wondered if her skin would be smooth and soft, or if the mounds would be firm to his touch.

“Ogling is impolite,” she said.

Apparently, he’d been staring. He jerked himself onto his feet and paced again in front of the heater. He hadn’t brought her into his pathetic, dusty lair to stare at her. He just wanted the nosiness to stop.

But how?

He hadn’t thought the plan through particularly well…or at all. Now that she was there, he couldn’t just let her leave. She’d go to the police, and he knew with unusual certainty that if the police intervened, someone would die, and that someone would be him because he wouldn’t be able to keep the beast at bay if threatened. Perhaps Andreas wouldn’t even be lucid when the execution occurred, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a sad one.

He looked at his watch, and then the woman.

Eleven. Barely lunchtime. She was likely expected back at work, but he couldn’t let her return. Not until he had her guaranteed silence.

He lurched across the small space between them, startling her upright, and pressed his hands to the sofa at either side of her hips.

Up so close, he could see the streaks of green in her blue irises, and the faint freckles beneath her makeup. He could see that her eyelashes were naturally dark, and he could smell the lingering aroma of vanilla in her hair or on her skin. She looked and smelled edible. When she dragged her tongue across her pink lips, he pondered if she’d taste good enough to eat, too.

“You smell like you’re meant to be eaten,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed to slits yet again.

“You smell sweet and ripe,” he said. Are you?”

“Your statements are rude.”

He drew in a long whiff of her and moaned his pleasure. There was something fruity, too, beneath the vanilla. Banana, perhaps. He’d disliked bananas up until that moment. They’d always reminded him of his first private school’s cafeteria. He’d hated that place and all the people there. Cliquish little brats. His mother, saint that she was, moved him elsewhere at his request with hardly a question.

“Not rude,” he whispered, turning his thoughts back to the present. “Simply truthful. I would have thought a woman such as yourself would appreciate my candor.”

“What do you mean, a woman such as myself? Loose? A bimbo? Is that what you think I am?”

He wouldn’t have cared if she was, but he didn’t think that at all. He likely would have heard already if she were. Men in Fallon tended to be the sorts who’d kiss and tell. Andreas had never heard anything about Mary Nissen. She must have been very pious indeed.

He drew in another breath, nearer the side of her face. He wanted to look at her from all angles—to examine the woman’s components to see what smaller things made her up—what things he could take apart to undo her completely.

“A paralegal,” he said, finally. “A paralegal should appreciate absolute truth.”

“I do.”

“So give me your truths, then. Tell me if you’re meant to be eaten.”

She scoffed, and even that sound was decadently melodious. She couldn’t possibly have known how she affected men.

Or maybe she does. Hmm.

Once more, the cruel woman passed her tongue over her lips. “Some truths are none of your concern.”

He sighed. “Just like car accidents I wasn’t involved in?”

She cringed.

He drew back a few inches so he could see her clear blue eyes. They really were the windows to the soul. She might argue with him, but her eyes wouldn’t lie.

“Give me a taste,” he purred.

She shook her head hard. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Many reasons, but the primary ones are that you drugged me, and now you’re holding me against my will!”

He turned his hands over in concession. “I won’t argue that.”

He believed he’d had good reason to drug her, and he had to keep her from leaving before she understood why he’d had to do it.

“You’d like to leave?” he asked, already knowing her answer.

“Yes. And I’d like you to give me my phone back. And where’s my tote?”

“Both are in a safe place.”

“So get them.”

“I thought you wanted to ask me questions.”

“You already said you weren’t going to answer them. You asked me to leave you alone, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

A lock of her pale hair fell from her otherwise tidy bun and, reflexively, he twined the sleek strands around his index finger. Smooth as silk, almost like spun gold or something that even he couldn’t afford.

She really was a goddess.

Growling softly, he reluctantly let go of the hair before she could decide she’d make him.

He drew in one more breath and let the air out, eyes closed.

Delicious. He would have done almost anything to keep her where she was, even answer her blasted questions.

“All right, Goddess Mary. I’ll let you ask your questions—”

“Great, let’s get started.” She pressed her hands to the cushion edges as if to stand, but he pressed his over them and clucked his tongue.

“I didn’t tell you my conditions yet.”

“Conditions for what? Are you seriously going to make me negotiate with you to ask a few questions about a run-of-the-mill traffic accident?”

“Yes,” he hissed.

She lowered her chin and looked at him through hostilely narrowed eyes. The local women were so good at being hostile. The rare ones knew how to be sweet at times, too.

“And…will you answer them, or is that not a part of the deal?” she asked.

“Oh.” He laughed and tapped his temple. “I believe you’re too smart for your own good.”

“No one has ever asserted that such a thing was a problem.”

“It is when you’re a meddler.”

“I’m not a meddler. I’m simply doing my job.”

“And this job means so much to you? This…” He made a dismissive flick of his hand. “This interview?”

“Well, yes, but—” She shook her head, took a deep breath, and tried again. “This interview specifically? No, one interview isn’t so important. Me doing my job competently and professionally is what’s important. Protecting my reputation is a priority.”

“Why?”

“Why?” She did another of those graceful shrugs. “Fallon’s not a big place. I’d rather have people think of me kindly, and if not kindly, then neutrally.”

“You care what people think?”

“Don’t you?”

“Only when they’re dangerous.” He leaned in close again, pulling in breaths near her ear, and sensed the curious swell of emotion from her. She was confused and didn’t understand him, but that was expected. No one understood him. For the most part, he was fine with that. “Most people, sweet Mary, are dangerous. Your nipples are hard.”

“What?” She folded her arms over her chest and leaned sideways away from his mouth. “Ugh.”

He laughed, genuinely, for the first time in weeks, perhaps. “You like my mouth. Don’t feed me lies and tell me you don’t. You forget what I am. I haven’t forgotten what you are.”

“The fact that my body finds appeal in the things you say or do doesn’t mean I’m not able to rationalize that I shouldn’t act on impulses.”

“Would you act? What would you do?”

“You’re getting off-course again, Mr. Toft.”

“Andreas.”

“Mr. Toft.” She enunciated his name as though he was a schoolboy in need of disciplining, and he imagined she could do the job. He’d let her, too. Any way she wanted. He could take anything she meted out.

He wanted to push her a little more to see where her breaking points were—to see how much he’d have to say to make her act.

“I offered you a deal, sweet Mary,” he said.

“No. You offered me a chance to ask questions. I want to ask questions, and for you to answer them clearly and to the best of your ability.”

“On the record, you mean.”

“An interview. We’ll determine later what I’ll do with the information.”

He drew in a breath, and let it out, frustrated. He didn’t understand why she cared so much about litigious wastrels. There were so many more important things to concern herself with—such as if he had something on him as hard as her nipples.

He did.

The hair at the side of her face danced against her cheek, and she licked her lush lips.

So pretty.

And his goddess, he was so ripe for her. That thing inside him that made him a beast could smell her wetness, more so with each rub of her thighs together. She thought she could shove back the desire, but she wanted him, and he wanted to be wanted. He wasn’t going to let her stop, or hide away.

“Mmm.” He wanted to part his legs and press her hand between them so that she could feel what she did to him. “What will you give me for each answer?” he whispered.

She scoffed mockingly. “That’s not how these things work.”

“You’re consuming my time, are you not? Is my time worth so little?”

“You’re doing your civic duty.”

He sighed, and asked mulishly, “Well, which side are you on?”

Her brow furrowed. “Side? What do you mean?”

“Which side of the mess are you on?” he asked, already bored with the prospect of rehashing the drama. “The gold car or the blue car?”

“What difference does that make? I won’t ask you any leading questions. I’m just gathering facts so that I can investigate further.”

“Gold. Or. Blue?” He leaned in a bit more with each word he enunciated.

Her eyes widened momentarily and her cheeks flushed becomingly. She blinked, stared for what seemed like a minute, and then scowled.

Too late. She’d already shown her hand of cards. She was intrigued by him, perhaps almost as much as he was intrigued by her. She might have thought him inscrutable, but goddesses weren’t meant to be understood.

“Blue,” she said, sighing.

“Hmm.” He nodded and righted his posture. “Do you suppose I’ll answer your questions neutrally and truthfully knowing that that your client is a man I despise?”

She closed her eyes and put her head back. “Shit.”

“Yes. Indeed.” Andreas despised both drivers, truth be told, but he didn’t see why she needed to know that yet.

“I understand that every witness account has some bias,” she said.

“And?”

“And I want you to tell me what you saw anyway. You let me worry about the bias.”

“Are you that desperate?”

“I’m that thorough.”

“I see.” He twined her silky hair around his finger again and, righting her head, she watched him curiously out of the sides of her eyes. “You should let it down.”

“What?”

“Your hair, sweet Mary.” He tickled the ends along her jaw and over her parted lips. “Like you do when you go out dancing.”

“Dance?” She let out a strained titter that made her breasts bounce enticingly. “I don’t dance.”

“But you do.” Reluctantly, he pulled his gaze up from her chest. “I saw you. You were at Elton’s some weeks ago, and the jukebox was loud, and I believe you were drunk.” He let the hair fall down into her cleavage and somehow suppressed the urge to brush it away. “You had your hair down and it flew around you. You were dancing wild and recklessly, and smiling. Laughing.”

“I…”

“Hmm?” He passed the pad of his index finger over her lips and tilted his head.

She was looking down at his hand and holding her breath.

“Is that as wild as you get, sweet Mary?”

“That is none of your concern.”

“Then what will you give me for my answers? If you wish to be so thorough, what do I get in exchange? I’m not obligated to be a good citizen when the citizens in this town aren’t good to me. They can all go fuck themselves.”

“And me too, right?”

No, he wanted her to be fucking him. She’d be so delicious riding atop him, breasts unbound and pressed against his mouth as his fingers notched into the meat of her fine ass.

His trespassing spy was so lovely, and smelled so wet.

“Just tell me what you want, Mr. Toft,” she said with more than a little exasperation.

“For a start, you can call me Andreas.”

“Does that get me one answer?”

He swirled the pad of his middle finger over her chin, just beneath the bow of her lip.

He loved touching her. He didn’t want to stop touching her, and that wasn’t so unusual for their kind. Their people touched casually simply to satiate tactile urges and for social connection, but he wanted more than that from her. He wanted her body pressed to his. He wanted her hands moving, gripping, urging. Her mouth whispering, licking, biting.

He pulled his hand away and let out a breath. “That earns you one answer.”

“I’m not sure if I really want to know the answer, but…what will earn me more?”

“More… Hmm,” he purred and leaned in close yet again. “I’ll tell you when the time comes.”

“Can I use my recorder?”

He shrugged. He didn’t see any reason why she couldn’t, though if her questioning went on too long, he imagined that she wouldn’t want to.

Gasps of pleasure probably didn’t make for very good case evidence.