Scarlett Romero has spent her entire life as an ordinary citizen; going to school, getting a job and definitely not killing people in the middle of the woods on a Friday night.
Until one Friday night, she does.
All she can remember is acting out of...
You can't sell dreams To someone who has Walked nightmares.
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Chapter Twenty "I Should Stop Thinking"
Scarlett's POV:
As soon as Achilles drops me from his shoulder, I try to bolt. He doesn't let me leave the cul-de-sac, thundering a growl and gripping two large, hairy hands onto my waist. I wince as his claws dig into my hips, pausing my struggling enough for him to clamp me to his chest.
"You run; I chase!" Achilles hisses in my ear, nose surprisingly wet against the side of my cheek. "That's how game works, you really want play?"
The stubborn, irrational yes sits on the tip of my tongue, but I know it's a game I wouldn't win. Making a break for it will only anger both Alexander and Achilles more, and while it would buy me a little bit time, it isn't worth the aggravation.
"No," I huff between gritted teeth, "I don't want to play. I want to take a shower and relax with some of those cookies you made yesterday, is that too much to ask?"
Achilles growls again, darker than the last, and I feel his canines lightly scrape against my neck. I swallow thickly, hating the desperate defensiveness bleeding through my voice. I have no idea how I'm going to get myself out of this, and it shows.
I shiver as Achilles drags his mouth across my throat, and I shift against him, trying to dislodge his hands from my waist. Instead, the lycanthrope glides them up my sides and over my shoulders, tapping my collarbones with his claws.
"Someone's feeling touchy," I say, trying to sound strong, but the words come out breathy and with a hitch I flinch at. I inhale a gasp as Achille spins me around, staring down at me with something so intense I can't help but look away.
"What were you thinking?"
There's something raw in his voice, a realness I have a tendency to run from. Sometimes I'm blunter than I should be, more honest than people want and more confrontational than what's deemed appropriate – I've never tried to remedy that because I've never seen the problem with it. But the door Achilles is opening... I don't deal well anything that leaves me vulnerable.
"What do you mean?" I feign disinterest, inspecting my nails whilst trying to ignore the nervous tap dance my feet are doing on the floor. Achilles laughs, deep and gravelly, and with an emptiness that makes my gut clench.
"You know what I mean, just don't want us see what going on up there."
Achilles taps my temple with a claw, gentle enough I barely feel the stab. His eyes fade from sapphire blue to Alexander's opal churning, and I'm suddenly aware of the lack of laughter lines beside his eyes – how long have they had nothing to be happy about?
