Cursed Mate (Feral Shifters 3)

“I hate that you and your brothers don’t see your own kindness,” I say softly, holding out the spoon again. “You’re so much more than the shadows.”

“Shadows.”

The word falls from his lips, sounding so much like the Frost I know, that I startle and drop the spoon. We both look at it, lying between us amidst little pieces of discarded shredded beef.

“Pain,” Frost says, holding out his arms and looking down at them with narrowed, saddened eyes.

But I realize the shadows aren’t waving as fast as they were when I walked in.

Progress.

Don’t stop now.

I reach for the spoon, but at the same time, he does too.

It almost seems like an automatic thing for him—like the gentleman I know is inside him has seen the fallen spoon and wants to pick it up for me.

His fingers land on the wooden handle, and mine land on his.

His skin is frigid.

We both pause. Frost’s eyelids droop, and he studies me from beneath his long lashes.

“Frost?” I whisper.

The darkness in his irises fades, and his eyes widen. “Amora. What—” He cuts off, seeming almost strangled by his own emotions. His gaze darts around the room, then to the chains on his arms, before he looks back at me. “You’re hurt,” he rasps. “Did I—”

“Shh.” I shake my head, tears clogging my throat as I wrap my fingers around his. “It’s okay. It doesn’t matter. Just stay with me. Don’t look back.”

“I can’t… remember.” He gasps the words, his breaths coming faster. He squeezes my hand, looking scared, devastated, and horribly confused. The riot of emotions in his eyes makes my heart almost stop beating. I want to take him in my arms and hold him so tightly that nothing can ever steal him away from me again.

Then the moment of lucidity vanishes in the blink of an eye.

His face twists into that wildness once more, and he grabs for me with a loud, angry snarl.

I manage to slide my fingers out from beneath his and fall onto my ass to crawl backward, skittering away from him like a crab so he can’t snag me with his other hand.

Frost roars. He picks up the wooden spoon and snaps it into two pieces, then throws them at me. The handle sails past my shoulder, while the meat-covered spoon slaps against my t-shirt. He stumbles to his feet and begins to fight against his bindings again, all hint of the Frost I know gone from his eyes.

I slide the bowl closer to him with my toes. As he lunges for it, burying his face in what’s left of the meat, I surge to my feet and hightail it out of the room. I lock the door and press my palms against the heavy wood, breathing hard, coming down from the sudden blast of adrenaline.

The bowl shatters against the door, shaking the wood beneath my hands.

I jerk away, my jaw tightening as I listen to his growls and grumbles continue inside the basement room. Listen to the chains clang and the pipes groan. Listen to him disappear back into the shadows.

Then I very carefully walk back upstairs, my throat burning, my chest aching, but determination seething through me like a promise.

I won’t give up on him.

Not ever.