Her cheeks went pink at his compliment, but her expression grew uneasy. “Syn . . . I don’t know if this—”
“Come on,” he said before she had a chance to continue thinking. “I have a surprise for you.”
• • •
For most of her life, Petra had existed on flora and fauna, animals and sunsets, fresh, moist air and the entertainment of nights around a roaring fire, filled with laughter and tales of shifters gone long ago.
Tonight was a revelation.
A first.
And as she sat next to Synjon once again in the back of the limousine, she silently prayed it wouldn’t be her last. She loved her life in the forest, never wanted to give it up completely, but this—tonight . . . She was blown away. She was addicted. She had to have more.
“You’re quiet,” Syn remarked. “Everything all right?”
All right? She grinned and shook her head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“There’s no dancing in the Rain Forest?” he asked.
She turned to look at him. “Not this kind. Not costumes and leaps and women dancing on their toes to the most beautiful music in the world.”
Clearly pleased with her assessment, Syn smiled. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“I didn’t enjoy it, Mr. Wise.” She was pretty sure her eyes were two limpid pools of dreamy female. “I’m transformed.”
He laughed. “Then we must do it again.” He reached down and removed her shoes.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Ease back on the seat, love.” He brought her feet to his lap and began to rub the soles. “Just a little massage.”
She sighed at the instant relief she felt and let her head fall to the side against the leather before she uttered a breathy “Why?”
“I heard that females in swell appreciate it.”
“Who did you hear that from?”
He glanced up, though his fingers continued to work the bottoms of her feet. “Alexander.”
She smiled. “Well, I guess he would know.” It was so odd to think that both she and her half sister were pregnant at the same time. And yet they hadn’t spent a moment alone together. She wondered if that would change anytime soon.
“If you enjoyed the ballet”—he raked his hand up her calf, massaging deep into her muscle, making her feel so good she wanted to groan—“there’s so much more I can show you, introduce you to. There’s the opera, Broadway. I believe Eels is playing at Webster Hall, and Swedish House Mafia’s over at Barclays. There’s also comedy, a few irritating Christmas shows I’d force myself to watch if it pleased you, and if you appreciate art, I know a Pureblood veana and her twin brother who have a show opening this Friday in Brooklyn.”
Between the massage and all the suggestions of what they could do together in the coming nights on the island of Manhattan, Petra felt her rational brain slipping away. “I’ve never been to an art gallery.”
His hand slid behind her knee, then slowly worked its way back down. Her sex clenched, wishing he would move that hand up between her legs instead.
“You’d like their work, I think. Whimsical but dark. Fairy tales gone wrong.”
She stared at him in the glow from the red taillights of cars up ahead and internally swooned. He was so gorgeous. Dark hair and eyes, heavy lips and sharp cheekbones, all wrapped up in a perfectly cut charcoal gray suit.
“I was thinking about buying a few pieces for the house. I have all those empty walls. I could use an opinion.”
“Syn.”
He looked over at her, his dark brows lowered over those magnetic, impossible-to-read eyes.
She wanted to stay in the bubble of tonight. The clothes, the compliments, the tutus, and how his hand had reached out and taken hers when the lights in the theater dimmed, then hadn’t released it until they went back on again. After all, she’d spent months, as she searched for her father, fantasizing about just this kind of attention from this exact person.
But it was all just that. Wasn’t it?
A fantasy?
“I don’t understand,” she said, her tone gentle as she eased her feet and legs from his grasp. “This—you and me—it was supposed to be all about blood and the balas.”
“Are you saying you’re not enjoying it?”
“I am enjoying it. That’s kind of the problem.”
His expression was utterly impassive as he said, “I don’t see a problem if you’re enjoying it.”
“That’s because these experiences, dates and . . . et cetera . . . well, they don’t mean anything to you.” The words felt like jagged glass in her mouth. “Except maybe as a precursor to sex.”
His jaw tightened.
She sighed. “Look, I don’t want to argue or make things uncomfortable, because frankly I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m staying here, with you—that the baby needs you. But I’m concerned.”
“About?”
Yes, Petra. About? Can you say it? Actually get the words out without your head exploding from embarrassment?
He was staring at her expectantly.
“Okay. Here’s what.” She put a hand to her belly. “We’ve already established that there’s a bond that’s been formed between you and Little Fangs here. I don’t think it’s a good idea to form one between you and me.”
His expression remained impervious. “Because of the bear shifter?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Because you have no feelings for me besides physical ones. That might’ve been okay in the past. A fun night and nothing more. But I’m about to become a mother. I’m trying to build a family.”
“With the bear shifter.”
“Jeez. Does it matter?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached down and retrieved her shoes, then slowly, sensually, placed them back on her feet like she was freaking Cinderella.
“Petra?”
She shivered at the sound of his voice. “Yes?”
His gaze lifted, dark eyes under dark, imposing brows. “You’re not going to name the balas Little Fangs, are you?” he asked as they pulled up in front of his building. “It’s bloody awful.”
13
The bear shifter.
Syn stood on the terrace in the bitter cold and tried to reason with himself. As the wind smacked him in the face, he tried not to think about Petra, about the night they’d just shared, about Little Fangs, and about how right now she was probably in her room removing the goddamn dress he’d fantasized about removing himself.
The bear shifter.
She’d been in a real bloody hurry to get away from him after that speech in the car. He turned and leaned back against the stone balustrade. Seconds after entering the apartment, she’d thanked him for a lovely evening and for the clothing, then left him standing like a complete knobhead in the hall.
The fucking bear shifter.
He was only interested in the balas? How could she think that after tonight? Was she truly going to make him say it out loud? Admit that something deep and disturbingly wonderful was happening between them?
He stared through the glass doors and into the apartment. The apartment he’d purchased for only one reason. What the bloody hell was he doing? Out on the terrace pining for the daughter of his enemy? He should be preparing for Cruen, his arrival and his slow progression into pain-filled madness. Here . . . where Petra and the balas were staying . . .
Ahhhh . . . Bollocks! His mind swam. He was so ruddy conflicted. It had all been so clear before he’d given Petra his blood. With every lick, every suck, every pint, he grew more and more weak with regard to the true goal of his existence.
He couldn’t let that happen.
Not even for the balas.
The buzzer at the front door drew his attention.
Who the hell could that be at this hour? he wondered, heading inside and across the living area. Better not be the Romans, come to talk him out of keeping Petra here. Of course, those three pavens wouldn’t be bothering with the door—a flash to the terrace was more their style.
“That’s right!” came the loudest female voice Syn had ever heard. “Time to party!”
Standing outside in the hallway, some of them still exiting the elevator, were twenty or so of his most dedicated revelers from the past week. His gaze moved over them, males and females, all sharp and sexy and ready to take down another case of whatever he’d purchased for tonight.
Problem was, he hadn’t purchased a bloody thing. Not for them, at any rate. In fact, he’d completely forgotten they existed.
He leaned against the doorjamb and shook his head. “Not tonight.”
A male who Synjon knew had just come directly from his Broadway show moved to the front of the group. “Not tonight? I thought it was every night, man.”
“Just for a few hours.” The woman beside him whined in an irritating baby voice. “I came all the way in from Queens.”
Synjon stared at the lot of them. Were these the same gits who had practically taken up residence in his apartment every night this week? How had he not noticed how bloody awful they were?
Another woman, dressed in some kind of leopard print costume, glanced past Syn. “Well, look here. Someone gets to party with you. Who is she?”
Something moved inside Syn at that moment. Clearly, Petra stood behind him, and he didn’t want anyone’s eyes on her. Especially not those of the males in the crowd. He crossed his arms over his chest and stood directly in the doorway. “Good night.”
The male snorted. “He’s having a private party, y’all. Let’s blow.”
“Not at all,” Petra called out. “I’m only a friend. Come in. Please.”
Syn turned to look at her. “What?”
Which in turn freed up a good amount of space for the group to push their way into his entry hall.
Letting the fools move past him, Syn just stared at Petra, who was wearing a set of black loungewear. Her breasts were pushed up, and she looked sexy as hell.
