A fresh wave of guilt hit me. “I wish it wasn’t me.”
She stopped walking.
A horrified expression had me picking her up into my arms and holding her against my chest. “Get that thought out of your head. It’s not you… I’m just…” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “…I’m a broken, dirty mess, and you don’t deserve the mess. You deserve the masterpiece.”
Tears filled her eyes as she reached for my face then slowly cupped my cheek. “Mason, the mess is the masterpiece.”
And then, very gently, she pressed her lips to mine in a chaste kiss that had my lungs burning for more, my body hard and aching.
“I wish…” My eyes searched hers. “…I wish I believed you.”
“Me too.” She gave me a sad look as she slid down my body.
I felt her breasts against my chest; I wanted to grab them, see them fit into my massive hands, watch her scream my name. I wanted so much.
I didn’t know how to have her — without losing control.
Without giving in to whatever the hell was wrong with me.
“I don’t want to hurt you again,” I admitted in front of a box of Cheerios.
She grabbed the cereal and tossed it into the cart. “Have you ever thought that maybe if you drank more blood you’d be able to think clearly?”
I frowned. “But wolves don’t drink blood.”
“Right, but you’re… not… just a wolf.” She said it with slight hesitation.
“Are you suddenly a vet?” I joked and grabbed ten more boxes of cereal. Genesis loved cereal, and Hope, it seemed, was either pregnant or Alex needed to feed her more. She constantly ate at midnight, giant bowls, sometimes three.
“I could be wrong.” She eyed some oatmeal and tossed it in the cart. “If I’m wrong, I’ll go hunting with you.”
My ears perked up. “Do you think you can keep up?”
She smacked me in the chest.
It only stung a bit.
I rubbed the spot and winked.
She was so pretty, my mate.
Hell.
I needed to stop thinking that way before I screw us both, making it so she couldn’t escape me, escape the bond.
But she was pretty.
So pretty.
Her eyes flickered green.
“Hungry?” I asked.
“Starving,” she admitted. “I would probably eat two of your steaks.”
I groaned at the erotic picture. “Wolves like to make food for…” I didn’t say mates, but that was what it was. It was our job to hunt the food, prepare it, provide for their every need.
I frowned at the memory of my last mate not liking steak but eating it because I’d wanted her to.