The Lycans Luna Witch

Chapter 8

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Hades

Fuck. Her beautiful green eyes are looking at me like I have told her the biggest secret in the world when all I have done is say her name. Even with my eyes pitch black and my Lycan unfurling and pushing forward at the delicious way she says our name. Like she owns it. Like she owns us. At this very moment, looking into eyes that have haunted my dreams, I don't hate the idea.

Could I have the same effect on her when her name rolls off my tongue like it belongs?

Up close, I can see little flecks of brown in the green. Luckily, her extended rest has healed the burst blood vessels, leaving only perfection in their absence. I have never seen eyes like this, and how they look at me is like having a spotlight focused on me. I am seen.

There is no fear, just awe and surprise.

A blush creeps up her neck, which has also healed nicely, and colors her cheeks a beautiful pink that goes well with her hair. Hair that now shines thanks to the nutrients and fluids she has been receiving intravenously and the feeding tube that had been removed just yesterday after she started moving around more than usual.

I repeat her name and then see a flicker of panic cross her face. Then I smell her fear.

"What's wrong?" I don't want her to be afraid. I never want her to be scared again. Not around me and definitely not because of me.

"Nothing," she whispers, looking away, the fear still heavy in her scent.

I don't push her. She needs to trust me, and I doubt that will come quickly—not after the unspoken message the scars on her body have conveyed. She has had a hard time, which has spanned more of her life than any good time. I want to show her there is more to life than pain and fear.

"Do you like bacon?" I figure redirecting is the best way to break the tension and diffuse the weird energy between us.

Her gaze flicks back to mine.

"I don't know." Her eyebrows furrow, and the pink on her cheeks remains.

I suppress a growl. The thought of her not eating well still evokes an irritability that, given enough friction, could set the world on fire. Instead, I nod my head and continue toward our original destination. Once I reach the kitchen, I gently place her on one of the breakfast bar chairs next to the kitchen island.

Once my back is turned, I can hear her rummaging in her bag. Then I smell something very herby like the tea Merabel likes to drink before it disappears again. Then her eyes are back on me.

Nerves at her watching me don't subside—not as I pull the ingredients from the fridge, fry everything, or plate our meal. It is the first meal I am making for her—perhaps the first meal someone has made for her in longer than is right. I want it to be perfect. While her eyes remain on me most of the time, occasionally, they drift to take in the room we are in. Once, I even caught her gaze lingering on the picture over my fireplace.

Guilt, uncalled for, floods me, and a flash of emotion crosses her face before her head jerks back and down. Staring at her hands, still clutching her bag like it is the most important thing in the world. I wonder at the possessions she puts such importance on. I never went through it. I wanted to, but it felt like a violation.