11. Chapter Eleven

Cally

I’m pretty sure I know what he’s doing out there. If his admission that he’s in rut wasn’t enough of a clue, the humongous monster lurking under his shorts was a dead giveaway. If I wanted, I could glance out the front window to confirm my suspicions, but that would be a rotten thing to do.

Perhaps what I’m doing is worse, though. I’m picturing it. He’s not fully human, so I’m uncertain what, exactly, an elk-man cock would look like. I just imagine it as being big. Almost obscene.

I watch in my mind’s eye as he strokes and pulls and tugs. A feral bugle piercing the quiet of the woods takes my lusty imaginings to a new level as his hand tightens and speeds up.

“Calliope Quinn. Stop it right now,” I scold myself as I pace to the kitchen to explore, trying to pull my thoughts away from what Sylas is doing not twenty paces from the front door.

The cupboards are fully stocked for a gourmet meal. It’s hard to believe the Army would provide such quality food. This makes me wonder how—and why—the splicers were made.

That thought makes me shiver. The idea of people being made instead of born takes cruelty to a whole new level. The thought sours my stomach.

To shake the thought from my mind, I open the upper cabinets and rummage. Canned ham, chicken, and tuna. Pack after pack of shelf-stable bacon. Capers, olives, oil, three kinds of vinegar, and pasta of every sort from orzo to lasagna noodles.

Celery leaves are poking from the top of Sylas’s backpack, which is lying on the bar separating the kitchen from the great room. When I inspect further, I see an onion, red and green peppers, and lettuce.

I chop vegetables for pasta primavera. I’ll make it cold with a vinaigrette dressing. When Sylas returns, if he doesn’t like that idea, we can use the veggies for something else.

He opens the door so quietly I wouldn’t have known he’d done so except for Tater’s excited chuff. Has Sylas not only enchanted me, but is he stealing my dog’s affection, too? Has Tater decided the elk-man isn’t an enemy? I’ll have to remind the dog that the elk-man threatened to kick him into the next county only a few hours ago.

Sylas avoids looking at me, which confirms my suspicions about what he was doing out there.

“How do you feel about pasta primavera?”

“Uh. I’m not familiar. I don’t eat meat.”

Interesting juxtaposition of incongruity. A vegetarian supersoldier. On second thought, elks are herbivores. I guess it makes sense.

“Pasta and veggies with oil and vinegar.”

“Sounds great.” He keeps his head down as he hurries to what I assume is the bathroom in the only private area of the hut. “Taking a shower,” he calls over his shoulder.

I’m Calliope Quinn, author of one of the oddest coffee table books to make it to number one in its category on Amazon. Half my head is shaved, the other contains long, dyed burnt-orange hair. The style and color look striking on me, if I do say so myself. All that is to say that I’m odd, a rebel, and outspoken to a fault. I have no desire to allow an elephant to occupy this room.

Before Sylas slips into the john, I call, “It’s okay, you know.”

His head whips toward me and he makes eye contact for the first time since his palms left my body when he abruptly stopped frisking me.

“I assume you were jacking off out there. It’s okay. I’ve never been in rut, but it must be intense. Frankly, I’d rather you take care of yourself than use superhuman effort to suppress what sounds like raging hormones. You don’t have to be embarrassed. Not with me.”

His mouth pops open and his eyes narrow, as though he’s seeing me for the first time. While he takes my measure, I take his.

When I first met him, all I could pay attention to were his differences. I mean, those antlers are at least a foot tall. I wonder how heavy they must feel, especially when he runs.

Now, though, I can see past the shaggy hair that covers him from the waist down. His face is… more than handsome. Almost too good-looking, although that isn’t possible, right? A perfectly straight nose, full lips, and high cheekbones balance a strong square jaw.

His eyes, though, are what capture my attention the most. Long, dark lashes frame eyes so deep and brown they seem to hold the secrets of the universe. Even when his face is serious, there’s a sparkle in those eyes that suggests he knows something I don’t.

If he wasn’t in rut, if every aspect of our brief time together hadn’t been fraught with bad news and necessary threats, I wonder if those eyes could sparkle in mischief or crinkle with laughter.

All in all, he looks strong, confident, and masculine in the most unexpected way—as though he could leave you breathless and hungry for more all at once. At first glance, you wouldn’t expect such beauty from someone so wild.

“Uh…” He was about to say something in response to my jacking-off comment, but simply shrugs and ducks through the bathroom door.

I’m boiling water when he bugles again. The mournful sound is so loud and resonant that the salt and pepper shakers vibrate on the laminate counter. Perhaps he’s taking care of himself again. Hopefully, that will take the edge off enough that the sensual looks he gives me will subside for a while. When he gazes at me like that, it ramps me up as well, and I don’t think that’s good for either of us.