Fable of Happiness (Fable 1)

I knew that pose.

I’d mastered that pose.

And I knew that look, too.

I’d worn it. I’d seen it. I didn’t need her to tell me that she hated me, feared me, and wanted me to die in equal measure.

“Here.” Placing the plate on the ground, I shoved it toward her. It slid across the concrete with a clunk, the bread tumbling into a shallow puddle. I scowled and reached to pluck it out before it could get too soggy. One of the many rules I’d learned here was you never wasted food. Ever.

She watched me carefully as I placed the bread back on her plate. A little bit of water never hurt anyone.

Holding her stare, I sat cross-legged before her, ignoring the cold concrete against my ass.

She bit her bottom lip, her eyes turning glassy as she stared at the bread. She trembled and sniffed as if food had the power to make her cry. Dismay coated her face as she glanced from the bread to the red juiciness of the strawberries that I’d tended, grown, and harvested.

Her hunger was obvious.

Her joy at seeing a basic feast sparked a cord of comradery inside me.

She wanted something I’d created.

Her desire for the breakfast I’d offered made possession flash through my heart. It silenced my hate just for a second, and with a quick snatch, I swapped her bread for mine.

I did it automatically.

Some long-dead chivalry raising its head despite my current lack of social skills.

Her head snapped up, long blond hair slipping over her shoulder.

And that was all it fucking took.

A single strand of hair.

A simple quirk of attention. Her eyes on me. Her awareness on me. Her heat so close. Her body so near.

Shit.

My cock swelled and pressed against my slacks, switching my starvation once again to her. A quaking desperation cracked my bones. I needed to shove the food away, strip her down, and wrestle her to the floor.

I’d stared at her last night, searching for tricks and lies. I’d been too focused on survival to see her for what she truly was.

But I saw now.

I saw her.

A woman.

A woman who stunned me fucking breathless with beauty I’d refused to see. Either my eyes were unused to seeing anything but my river-cast reflection or I’d forgotten what females looked like because I swore on the final shreds of my self-control that she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.

Leaf-scattered hair, big green and brown swirling eyes, pink lips, dirt-smudged cheeks, and a body that wasn’t feeble or fragile but had muscle tone, power, and a stark warning that if I was going to take what I wanted, I’d have to fight for it.

Images instantly sprang to mind.

Of her nails on my skin. Of her teeth on my throat. Of her legs spreading as I subdued her to the ground and—

Stop!

My hands shook as I dropped my eyes.

Don’t.

My nostrils flared as I struggled with self-control. I balanced on a knife-edge of staying where I was or launching myself at her.

And then her voice cut through my raging pain. Soft and tentative, grateful. “You didn’t have to do that.”

The shock of her kind tone wrenched my head up. My cock stopped trying to buckle me beneath its command. I sucked in a breath. “Do what?”

She licked her pink lips. “Swap the bread.”

Her thankfulness sent me reeling. No one had ever been thankful. No one had ever used that tone toward me. No one. I cleared my throat, scrambling for forgotten words. “It was wet.”

“I’ve eaten worse.” Raising a shoulder, she half-heartedly shrugged. “I camp a lot. I don’t always make an effort to cook decent food. I don’t care about dirt or rain.”

Was she talking to me?

Was this a trick?

Some sort of ploy to make me interact with her?

You’re already interacting with her.

You’re feeding her, housing her, wanting to fuck her.

I balled my hands, distrust overshadowing my sudden compulsion to keep her spilling her secrets.

“What’s your name?” The question was sour on my tongue.

What the fuck?

Why would you ask that?

Who cared?

I didn’t.

I didn’t plan on keeping her around long enough to know why she camped or climbed or didn’t care about dirt.

She was dangerous.

I knew that now.

I couldn’t keep her as a pet. I couldn’t house her during winter and use her body whenever I wanted.

She has to go.

Gritting my teeth, I steeled myself against any other unwanted softenings.

I would carry out the unpleasant task of her demise tonight. Today. This very fucking moment before it got any more complicated.

I raised my hand. “Don’t. Don’t answer—”

“Gemma.” She bowed her head as if coming to the same conclusions I had. Spying a weakness in our boundaries, knowing that the more we conversed, the more connections would spring.

It was inevitable.

It was human nature.

It was the oldest trick in the goddamn book.

It had also been used against me far too many times to count.