The Master Shark's Mate (Fire & Rescue Shifters 5)

champagne tasted like moonlight, spreading silver through her veins.

To memories. The last time she’d drunk champagne as fine as this, it had been at her wedding. She remembered her husband’s shining eyes as he’d made his vows to her. The vows he’d never, ever broken.

Oh, Manuel, Manuel. You were always faithful to me. Help me to be strong now.

A splutter interrupted her fervent prayer. Opening her eyes, she discovered the Master Shark was clearly struggling to contain a coughing fit. He was usually so dignified, she couldn’t help but break into giggles.

“Oh, my,” she said, wiping her eyes. “You aren’t supposed to chug it. Don’t you have champagne under the sea?”

“No.” He put his now-empty glass down, still glaring at it with such mortal offense that it was a wonder it didn’t melt into slag on the spot. “A fact for which I am now very grateful. Is all alcohol so…bubbly?”

“Only the good stuff.” Unable to contain her curiosity any longer, she tapped a finger against one of the curving metal plates covering his forearm. It was, unmistakably, honest-to-God armor. “This must weigh a ton. Can you really dance in this stuff?”

The gleam was back in his storm-cloud eyes again, though this time it was a distinctly predatory look. Without a word, he held out his hand.

Setting aside her own champagne, she placed her hand in his. Her own looked very small, delicate as an autumn leaf against his hard, scarred palm. A thrill shot through every inch of her body as his powerful fingers closed, ever so gently, over hers.

“Come,” he said, pulling her toward the dance hall. “I will show you.”

Chapter 8

He could feel his mate’s pulse thudding through her fingertips as he led her into the dance hall. Despite the excitement and arousal in her scent, there was an edge of apprehension as well.

He suspected he knew the cause. He attracted attention at the best of times. Here, dressed as he was, he stood out even more painfully. He’d worn his formal armor to honor her, but now he wondered if he’d made a mistake. He was used to drawing every eye, but he doubted Martha was.

When he ducked through the door, it was even worse than he’d feared. One musician accidentally inhaled through his instrument, producing a loud, discordant bleat. Most of the couples on the dance floor missed steps, doing double-takes up at him.

His shoulders tensed under his armor. If anyone dared to make his mate feel uncomfortable…

“Don’t you dare,” Martha snapped, bristling at a woman who’d started to raise a cellphone. “Have you no shame? How would you like it if I took your picture and stuck it up online for everyone to leer at?”

The young woman dropped her phone with a guilty expression. Martha tucked her hand more firmly into the crook of his arm, squeezing his rigid muscles. Holding her head high, she steered him onto the dance floor, ignoring the stares with the icy dignity of a born queen.

“Some people,” she muttered, glaring at the nearest couple until they looked away sheepishly. “Honestly. Gawping at a man like he’s an animal in a zoo.” Her fingers tightened, as if in reassurance. “Just ignore those idiots. Don’t let their bad manners spoil your evening.”

She was concerned for him. Scarcely five feet tall, dressed in nothing more than thin silk over her soft curves, and yet she bared her teeth in his defense.

She caught his eye, and cocked her head. “What? Why’re you looking at me like that?”

He wanted to carry her off and claim her. He wanted to hold her in his arms and never, ever let go. He wanted to fight with her, back to back, the two of them against the whole world.

But all he could do was lift her hand to his lips. Her breath hitched as he brushed her knuckles with the lightest of kisses. He closed his eyes, trying to memorize the precise scent of her skin.

When he opened his eyes again, hers had gone wide and dark. “What was that for?” she asked, breathless.

“You,” he replied, lowering her hand again. He slid his other hand around her waist, as Breck had taught him. “Dance with me.”

He was too tall for her to rest her left hand on his shoulder as the other couples were doing. Instead, she placed it in the crook of his arm, her warm fingers sliding under the cold plates of his armor. He could sense a hesitation in her touch. She was still unsure whether she could trust him.

He wished he had the words to reassure her. But he was a shark. He was not made for speech. He was made for silence, and darkness, and the hunt.

And to move.

She gasped as he swung her into the music. He could sense his prey’s heartbeat from fifty miles away; following the loud, simple pulse of the drums was child’s play in comparison. He let the rhythm sway him as easily as the ocean’s currents.

Martha laughed out loud as he spun her round, her astonished eyes shining with delight. He read her desires in the brush of her fingertips on his and the sway of her hips, guiding her in return with the barest touch on her waist or the slightest press on her shoulder. She responded to his wordless suggestions so eagerly, it was as if they were linked mind-to-mind rather than hand-in-hand.

There was no breath for talking, thankfully. He could let his body say what his voice never could. She was the center of every circle, the focus of his every movement. No matter how she turned or twirled away, she always returned to him.