The Wicked Beasts That Roam

Chapter 8

When those pair of panties floated onto his boot like a heavenly feather, Damian knew there was no handing them back. Not now. Not ever. They were his—not that he was going to wear them, just . . . smell them.

Psycho? Yes. Did he care? No.

He figured it was payback for the coat and shirt he lost three years ago. He jogged down the stairs to the bar. The brick walls were lit with dim lights, and behind the bar Aidyn was stocking bottles of liquor onto the shelves. His brother glanced back.

"Haven't seen you down here much."

"Hand me a beer." He leaned his stomach against the counter and rested his elbows on its surface.

Aidyn grabbed a Bud Light from the ice box and set it in front of him. "Where've you been lately? You've been acting strange for the last three days."

"No, I haven't."

The last thing he needed was his brother telling him he was acting strange, because he wasn't. He was merely staying out of sight. A lot.

"Yes, you have. I don't even think you've eaten."

"Are you my mother now?"

Aidyn sighed, popping the cap of his own beer. "What's your deal with Jade?"

He cut his eyes. Why did everyone think there was a "deal" between them? There was no deal. If anything, there was just the tiniest hint of attraction, which rebelled against all laws of physics, and it was slowly eating at his brain, making him want to step out in front of a Mack truck.

"The other night, you got all possessive at the window, and a day later you were probably the drunkest I've ever seen you. Even Zeke was asking questions, and he was drunk." Aidyn's face scrunched as if he'd eaten a lemon. "And now it's like your hiding."

He was. He wouldn't deny it. Hiding from her was stupid—he knew this. Comforting but stupid. It was just easier to deal with these bouts of lust than to face them head on. His smell was on her. He was confused and freaked and . . . a little turned on, but for the most part, he stayed confused. And he kept asking himself the same question.

How'd it get on her?

It was only a small amount of it embedded in her skin, but he knew there was a chance it could grow more profound over time. He didn't want that. He didn't want anyone knowing he somehow marked a human. It wasn't a claim he was proud of.

"What's going on? It's like you know this chick or something?"

"He does."

Damian glanced over his shoulder at the sound of the familiar voice. Len was standing under the archway with her wooden cane in hand. The old woman walked toward them, her long blue night-gown swishing back and forth against the floor. Looking away from her, he stared at his beer. Dread knotted inside him. Of course the witch would come over and stir some drama.

"Don't you, Damian?" She sidled up on the stool beside him.

He eyed the counter, content with not answering.

"He doesn't like talking about how he made out with her on my couch."

Aidyn's eyes bulged out of his skull. "What?"

"Tell him about it." Len nudged Damian, and he glared at her. "Go ahead."

"It was nothing." He cut his eyes, not looking at either of them as he shook his head.

"It didn't look like nothing. In fact, if I hadn't walked in, I think it'd gone a little further." She looked to his brother. "He would've taken advantage of that poor girl."