Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 152666 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 763(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 509(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152666 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 763(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 509(@300wpm)
Shaken and unsure why, I finally entered the bedroom. Her smell was more intense here and her world much more chaotic. Despite the pristine organization of her work and home space, her bedroom was anything but—something I identified with. A glass of half-finished water sat on the bedside table along with another book, the page marked with what looked like a random slip of paper. Shoes lay on the ground by the door and slippers by the closet, as though thrown there randomly. A blanket was draped on a well-worn, overstuffed chair by the far window. Her sheets lay in disarray, rumpled and turbulent.
I paused as I looked at it and wondered if she’d dreamt of our meeting like I had. If she’d relived each slow, delicious detail. If she wanted to do it again but prolong it next time, joined together, me filling her up over and over again, lodged inside of her—
Sweat coated my forehead and I braced a hand against one of the four posters of her bed, leaning over in agony. My cock was painfully hard, the ache pounding through me. I wanted her here, now. I wanted admittance to those sheets and her body. I wanted to thrust into her tight depths until we passed out from fatigue.
Get ahold of yourself, I yelled internally, needing to find some sort of control. If I was like this when she wasn’t present, what would happen when she was? How the hell would I control myself when she was living and breathing next to me, her beauty captivating me, her smell, her heat drawing me in . . .
Sucking in a ragged breath, I noticed a leatherbound book—no, a journal—laying closed in the center of a small writing desk in the corner. A quill and ink sat beside it, an archaic but romantic way to write out one’s thoughts.
I crossed the room to it as though in a trance, then picked it up and glanced at the first page. Her words flowered in my mind, fresh and vibrant and expressive.
Before I knew time had passed, I’d finished the journal, and Tanix was entering the bedroom with a confused expression.
“Get out,” I growled, surprising myself with both the ferocity in those two words and my reaction to another male in my true mate’s intimate space.
Outside the bedroom, after a few more ragged breaths, I spoke to him again.
“I apologize. I—“
He held up a hand. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through with this, Alpha. True mates are supposed to be a clandestine, surreal meeting. What should’ve been the best surprise of your life has turned into a nightmare. I don’t envy you this detail. If I can help in any way . . .”
I nodded with gratitude. “Thank you. And no, it’s not ideal.”
“We have information from the village. Did you find anything here?”
I pushed the bedroom door wide again, surveying the messy interior and feeling a pang in my chest that I’d never get to know why she was so immaculate in everything but her most intimate space. Her wildness showed in her bedroom, as it had on the path last night. As it had when she’d burst in on four powerful shifters and struck them with an axe in Granny’s cottage. I wanted to know more of that woman. I wanted to relish in her fierceness, but co-exist in the controlled, organized space she also clearly felt comfortable in. I lived a very similar existence but I hardly ever let the wildness show. Not like I had last night. It was something I never should’ve done—because it was something I could never, ever forget.
“I found her journal,” I finally said. I didn’t hold it out and Tanix didn’t offer his hand. He clearly knew I wouldn’t be turning it over. “Looks like there is a row of them on the bookcase in her bedroom. I’ve glanced through it. She had details on products she’s created, information on some daily activities. Hopefully there’ll be some information about the overall operation, as well. Regardless, the dragon queen will want to get these notes. Take all her books except the mundane gardening ones.”
I did not dare mention I was enraptured reading the snippets of her very lonely life dispersed in between the work-related stuff. She wrote her feelings in such a raw way that I couldn’t help feeling every slight at the market, every snub while taking her daily walk, every cutting remark she overheard as she passed. Visible amongst those, though, was her drive for perfection. If a word was spelled incorrectly, it had a strikethrough and the proper spelling next to or right above it. She either knew it was wrong after writing it, looked it up and changed it on the spot, or she went over her writing later, found the error, and corrected it.