Chapter 5

My night had not gone well.The food, shower, and change of clothes were great. The hunt for the spell book was a bust. The castle was bigger than it looked from the outside, and really, if they had the stolen book, would they make it easy to find?

When I got into the bed and snuggled under the covers, a masculine scent tickled my nose and skyrocketed my pulse. It was Trace's. I've heard pheromones were powerful, but had never had occasion to test that theory—until now.

This was his bed.

His bedroom.

Why hadn't he told me this was his room? Because he'd done this on purpose. So much for not bringing up the mate thing. I'd be subjected to it all night long.

When I woke, images from my dreams, when I'd managed to sleep, played on fast-forward as I changed into a cute athlesuire outfit he'd left for me. It was a bit tight around my hips and chest but the material was super soft and I loved the cranberry color.

My body felt electrified by the scenes I remembered from last night, Trace bracing himself above me, his muscles straining, his gaze filled with lust as he filled me. And the noises I'd made, the begging I'd done, now had me all hot and bothered. None of it had been real. But it had felt real. And a part of me, within less than twenty-four hours of meeting him, wanted it to be real.

Had just one kiss bound me forever to a man and prophecy I'd never had knowledge of? Because I was beginning to feel as if this is where I belonged. After years of jealousy, backstabbing, and scorn from my coven because of my powers, had I finally found my destiny? Was I fated to be with Trace?

The scent of coffee wafted up the staircase as I made my way down. I debated how to handle the sexy and irresistible Trace Smythe. Not knowing what he really was, although obviously a type of shifter with those glorious wings, should have filled with me with fear, but instead all I felt was an increasing connection.

I followed the sounds of pots clanging and cursing, and entered a kitchen I would never have imagined to find in a thousand-year-old castle. Sleek and modern cabinetry with black quartz countertops. This was a chef's dream kitchen.

High-end appliances and cookware filled the large space, in direct contrast to the stone walls and wood-beamed ceiling. Yet somehow it felt homey with scattered rugs and a large round pub-height table in front of what looked to be the kitchen's original fireplace. It was flanked between two sliding glass doors that led to a covered patio. Shrubs and a garden just beyond painted an idyllic setting. But this was no vacation, and we couldn't get outside to enjoy the warm morning, anyway.

Trace stood in front of the most complicated espresso machine I'd ever seen. He hit the side of it a couple times and was rewarded with a shot of frothy black liquid he tipped into a mug. Without looking my way, he said, "I hope you like your coffee strong, mate."

There was that word again. Did he even realize he'd used it? Do I continue to argue that there was no such thing as fated mates, or do put all my efforts into what I came here for, and search for the spell book my aunt claimed was stolen from my mother's family? I wouldn't put it past him to know exactly where it was and not tell me.

"Do you take cream or sugar? There's both, although I can't vouch for the cream since I'm pretty sure everything in the fridge is about to, or has expired." Trace placed the mug on the table in front of me.

"Um, I usually take a bit of both, but I'll skip the cream. Thanks."

He was so tall and big and totally out of place in the kitchen, which made him serving me coffee so sweet.

"So, I have good news, and bad news. Which would you like first?" Trace situated himself on one of the stools directly across from me. Freshly showered, he wore a dark-blue shirt that somehow accommodated his wings and formfitting black pants which he filled out nicely with his thick thighs, and if I wasn't mistaken, a very large package that was threatening to bust the zipper.

"Mate, er, Bex?" Trace's voice was rough and grumbly and full of need.

Shoot, he caught me checking him out. It was becoming harder to deny my intense response to him. But did I want to give this shifter any encouragement? A part of me, the part that hadn't had sex in months, was screaming, Yes! Climb that mountain, Bex.

But the pragmatic side, although interested, knew if I did, the chances he would be satisfied with a one and done was probably less than zero since he believed us to be fated. And with his major alpha vibes, I would need to make sure he knew there was no chance I would ever agree to this mate thing.

And that meant no more obvious reactions to his touch or licking of my lips in anticipation of another rock-my-world kiss. But dammit, his smile did delicious things to my system. In fact, right now I struggled to ignore the flutter deep inside me that had begun in my lower belly, then zapped my core, and was now right now making my clit throb. It was driving me crazy. It made me beyond desperate for relief—from him, and only him.

Was it too soon to have these feelings? And was I strong enough to not act on sexual impulses that would tie me to a stranger—if what he said was true—forever?