42. Mireille

Observing someone as self-contained as Cyrus talking is a bizarre experience. He’s beyond uncomfortable. Huge jaw clenched. He moves from one foot to the other.

But I believe every word he’s saying. That edginess is pure discomfort, building towards the point of no return. When he took his top off and wrapped me in it, I felt my wolf rise powerfully.

It’s not even the full moon until tomorrow, and all I wanted for a few hazy seconds was to open my legs wider on the ledge.

Seeing his bare, mountainous chest and shoulders really didn't help. Especially as he's covered in eye-grabbing tattoos. Each scene is darker, more miserable than the last. Chains, bars, prison walls. Skulls and bones over his pecs, but they’re damaged, chunks missing. He is carpeted in despair.

Pure curiosity sees my eyes drawn to his collarbones.

He has the tell-tale scar that suggests a matebond. Maybe that's the part I'm meant to start hating him at.

His hazel eyes keep flitting up to look at me. Not for long.