Page 22 of An Oath at Midnight

“A party, at the clubhouse.” She stood and grabbed her robe. “We need to talk, but not now. Tomorrow,” she said and started toward the bathroom.

I shoved my fingers through my hair. “Will you come to the tree house when you’re done?” I tried to keep the desperation from my voice.

She crossed her arms. “Not tonight.”

“Why?” Jesus, it felt like a dagger in the chest.

“I just…my head’s all over the place. I just wanna sleep in my own bed.”

She was pulling away. She’d needed to be alone after Maeve’s party as well. We didn’t do alone. We were better together, always. “Bullshit.”

She released a wary breath. “I’m tired. I don’t want to argue. You have no idea how messed up tonight was.” The “because you weren’t there” went unsaid. Her hands went to her hips, and her amber eyes locked on mine. “So, if you’re around tomorrow, and you still want to talk, or argue, we can do it then.”

“Don’t be like that.” The adrenaline pumping through my veins hadn’t calmed from earlier that night, and every muscle in my body tightened. I had to stop myself from grabbing her and tugging her closer.

Her eyes never left mine. “Like what?”

Fuck. I felt as if my world was falling apart, slipping away beneath my feet, and I didn’t know how to stop myself from falling with it. “You’re pissed off. So let me have it.” I deserved her anger. I needed it. This indifference she was giving me, I fucking hated it.

“Go to the tree house, Bram. I can’t do this with you right now.” She walked past and reached for the door handle. A scent hit me like a wet fucking rag to the face and possessive fury exploded through me.

My hand shot out, grabbing her arm, stopping her. “You smell like hound.” The words were out, hard and accusatory, before I could stop them.

“Like I said, I was at the clubhouse,” she said, not looking at me.

My other hand snaked out and caught the side of her throat. I tugged her closer, struggling to contain the possessiveness, the rage at what I was positive I could smell on her. I dipped my head, dragging my nose along her throat to the corner of her mouth, and a series of hoarse, rhythmic clicks rumbled from deep in my chest. My crow right there.

“Bram?”

“Relic,” I snarled. “His mouth was on yours.”

She was mine, my mate, whether she knew it or not, whether she ever acknowledged it or not, and another male had put his fucking mouth on her.

I lifted my head and stared down at her. “He kissed you.”

Her eyes were wide. “I asked him to…but none of that matters—”

“You want him?” I barely stopped myself from rocking back. The effect of her words, a physical blow.

“No.” She trembled slightly. “I wanted Clayton gone, and Relic was there.”

My eyes slid shut, and my vision filled with blood, with death, with agonizing screams. Clayton’s. Warrick had torn him to pieces that day at the cemetery, but as far as I was concerned, he’d died too easy. When I opened them again, Mags was staring up at me, her breathing erratic. I wanted to claim her mouth. I wanted to be the one to wash Clayton from her lips. That wasn’t Relic’s to take. It was mine, it should have been mine.

“Bram—”

“Don’t,” I said harshly, unable to control all I was feeling. “Don’t ever kiss him again, understand? You kiss him again and I’ll kill him, Magnolia. I’ll fucking end him.”

Our eyes locked, and we stared at each other as seconds ticked by. I waited for her to tell me I was out of line. To ask me why I’d said what I just had. She didn’t, like every time I veered too close to possessive or all but declared her mine, she broke eye contact first and pulled away. I wanted to grab her and shake her, to roar at her to see me—to fucking see me.

Somehow, I had to contain what was flaring up inside me—a male staring down at his female and wanting, needing, so badly to wash away the stain of another male’s kiss from her lips.

But if I did that, I risked fucking up everything. I risked losing her completely. So no, I wouldn’t kiss her, but I also couldn’t pretend I didn’t need her. Especially after being away from her. “You’re sleeping with me in the tree house,” I said, a demand leaving no room for argument. “You can shower there.”

For once, Magnolia didn’t argue. Deep down was she afraid of what I’d say if she resisted?

Fucked if I knew, but something was seriously wrong, and the sooner I had her in my bed, in my arms, the better. She let me take her hand and lead her back down the stairs, out of the house and across the yard. When she reached for the ladder, I stopped her, yanked off my shirt, and partially shifted. My wings exploded from my back, and I scooped her up and flew to the deck and carried her inside. As soon as I put her down, she walked into the bedroom, grabbed one of my shirts, then strode into the bathroom, shutting herself in—or maybe me out?

Fuck.