July 2044 - A motel room just inside the border of the Draakonriik
Dom staredat the closed bathroom door. He sat on the edge of their motel bed, his boots planted firmly on the cheap carpet and his elbows braced on his knees. He’d maintained that position since his mate disappeared into the bathroom a half hour ago.
Everything in him, every instinct, held itself in perfect silence as he waited for any sign that she would reappear. As the minutes ticked by, his nerves stretched until they threatened to snap.
She said she wanted a shower, he firmly reminded himself. You can’t bust in there just because she’s taking a long time.
But he couldn’t stop himself from worrying. Charlotte had been quiet since their encounter with her captors. He’d only known her for two days, but already he felt attuned to her, as if every instinct he possessed was made for her and her alone. It ate at him that he knew Charlotte was in distress and yet he could not figure out how to help her.
Demons were tactile. If she were a demon, he wouldn’t think twice about hauling her into his lap and holding her close so the rumble of his throaty purr and his warmth could soothe her.
But his wee, perfect mate was not a demon. She was fey, and she was dealing with some extremely heavy shit. He didn’t know the first thing about soothing her and that knowledge made his skin tighten with shame.
A demon who doesn’t know how to comfort his mate. It was galling.
Dom stood up from the bed, the sudden loss of his considerable weight making the springs squeal, and moved to stand in front of the door. He braced his hands on his hips and glared at the wood.
He would be damned if he went down in history as the first demon to let his mate suffer alone. Demons didn’t do that. They looked after their mates. No one was more devoted than a demon. No one was more committed to the happiness of a mate than a demon. There were whole folktales written about the lengths a demon would go to please a mate.
But there he was, shaming his clan by just standing there, waiting for her to come to him.
The only reason I don’t know how to help her is because I haven’t had the chance to learn yet, he decided. It was time to remedy that.
Feeling the disapproving stare of every one of his ancestors prickling the back of his neck, Dom dragged a huge breath in before he raised his fist to knock on the door.
“Charlotte,” he called, knowing she would hear him. The shower had stopped running fifteen minutes ago. When he got no response, he stepped closer to the door and lowered his voice. “Glowbug, open up. I need to see you.”
He closed his eyes, wincing. Didn’t mean to say that.
What he meant to say was, “Are you okay?” Or even, “Do you need me?” But what came out of his mouth was a pitiful plea. Dom rested his forehead against the door and swallowed a groan.
Yeah, he needed to see her like he needed to breathe oxygen or drink water, but he didn’t need to be so obvious about it.
Dom opened his mouth to elaborate on why he wanted to see her — to check on her and satisfy the frothing animal in him that lived for every scrap of attention it could get from her — but the door opened before he could get the words out. Righting himself with a small jerk, he gripped the door jamb with one hand and peered down at his little mate.
She stood in the doorway. The fresh scents of body wash, steam, and her billowed out around her to smack him in the face. Dom leaned back automatically, the muscles of his stomach tightening at the sight of her standing there in nothing but a thin sleep shirt and some dangerously brief shorts.
His blood rushed south so fast he felt momentarily lightheaded. Sweet Tempest, my mate has the prettiest fucking legs I’ve ever seen.
Not that all of her wasn’t beautiful, of course, but Dom had a special appreciation for her long, smooth calves and supple thighs. He pressed his palms flat against his pockets to quell the urge to run them over every delicious inch of her. It didn’t stop the way his pulse pounded in his ears, though, nor the ache of his erection pressing hard against his fly.
“I can’t find it.”
Dom’s eyes snapped up from their inspection of her creamy skin, his instincts prickling at the subdued whisper. “What?”
“The sigil. I can’t find it.” Charlotte shifted in place, her bare feet shuffling against the linoleum floor of the bathroom. She refused to meet his eye. “I was looking to see if I could find it, but…”
“Oh.” Dom swallowed hard. The shame of not knowing how to soothe her was compounded with the guilt he felt for ogling her when she so clearly needed caring for, not a demon lusting after her.
Lifting his hand to cup her cheek, he said, “You should have told me. I’m here to help you, Charlotte.”
“It feels personal,” she admitted. Charlotte closed her eyes and tilted her head into his hand. Her lower lip trembled when she added, “They must have put it on me when I was passed out, and I had it all this time without knowing, and I just—” She cut herself off.
“It’s violating.” Dom slid his palm around to the back of her neck. Using his gentle grip, he drew her in slowly, ready to release her at the first sign that she might not want to be held.
But Charlotte didn’t tense up or step away. She opened her eyes to look up at him as she cleared the doorway. The expression in her gaze was heartbreakingly bruised. Dom felt a familiar flush of rage in his blood, roiling in his shadows, but forced it away.
Her tormentors were dead. He and his mate were safely in dragon territory. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her again, even if he had to devote the rest of his godsdamned life to make it happen. The anger, rightfully earned as it was, didn’t serve either of them. It wouldn’t fix Charlotte’s pain, nor would it help him understand how to care for her.