“You’re welcome, little apple. It wasn’t hard—I just microwaved another casserole.” He pulled a chair up next to the bed to put their water glasses on, then put the tray in the middle of the bed.
“Right, thank you for the food, too. But I meant thank you for being here, with me, letting me stay with you. Is this the last of Thelma Burgenstock’s chicken casserole?” She waved the scent toward herself. His mother had brought over another of Thelma’s masterpieces when she heard how much they liked it. “Do you think Thelma would give me the recipe?”
“I’m pretty sure pack wars have started over this recipe. It’s addictive.” Flint took a forkful off her plate.
“Hey!”
He cocked his head towards her and opened his mouth.
“Oh, Goddess. You’re the worst.” She speared a forkful of chicken and fed him a bite like a baby bird.
“That’s enough, one bite. The rest is for you. I’ll suffer with Aunt Jodi’s chili.” It wasn’t suffering. His aunt’s chili won contests around the western part of the state at any fair she took it to.
After they had eaten for a while, she turned to him. “That smells good.” She eyed his plate.
“You can have some.”
“I’m good. I don’t think I could eat another bite.” She’d finished her plate. “In fact, you made dinner, so I should clean it up, but moving sounds too hard.”
Flint held his empty plate with his fingertips. “You could use magic.”
She rolled onto her side, facing him. “Or you could.”
“I’ve already put a statue in your kitchen.”
“I wasn’t thinking then—that task was too hard. You’re touching the plate. Send it to the sink.”
Flint stared at the dish in his hand like it might sprout teeth and swallow his whole arm.
“Go on, you can do it.” Emma sucked in her lips and put her hand on his abs in support, which was only causing the blood to rush to his cock.
He closed his eyes and envisioned the plate sailing across the room. It lifted off his fingers, and he cracked his eyes open. It’s moving, like a frisbee, he thought.
Only, it hadn’t been, but it did after. The twirling picked up speed. Bits of sauce flung from it, and its trajectory was too speedy for a soft landing in the sink next to the breakfast bowls. It spun faster and faster, past the sink . . . and through the screen of the open window. Flint jumped up and raced after it—what he thought he could do, he had no idea. He got to the window in time to see the plate shattered against a craggy old pine tree on the other side of the fence. Penny stared at the plate and back at the window.
Flint watched his dog shake her head in shame. “I think I’ll stick to doing the dishes the old way.”
Emma came up behind him and put her arms around his waist. “You’ll get it eventually.”
“I think I’ll let you handle the magic in this family, little apple.” He kissed the top of her curly head.
She sighed. “You’re sure?”
“I will willingly give you all of my magical powers day after day.” He breathed in her scent, his wolf settling. He held his hand up, and his magic flowed to hers.
“I’m glad. Because something about this feels right, easy. Like I’m home.”
“How’s your burn?” He gently lifted her shirt over her head, purely to make sure she was healing okay. His left hand hovered underneath her breast.
“Good. I’ve never healed this fast.” The shifter mating bond had kicked in, so she would heal faster now, be stronger. Some mates even developed shifter hearing. Dr. Swan had made them promise to either mate or separate, as their powers were interlocking and soon there wouldn’t be much chance of separating ever. “Take a look. I swear it’s gone already.” She lifted the tape holding the gauze to her skin. “Flint, it’s gone.”
“Not quite, but soon.” He lightly touched it, checking her for signs of discomfort. “Does that hurt?”
She shook her head.
He led her back to the bed and had her lie down. He ran his fingers over the healing area, and it turned from red to a light pink.
“Wow, you’re a healer. See Flint, you can use your magic.” She propped herself up on her elbows.
“No. Well, yes. But shifter magic. From fated mates. I don’t know why I couldn’t tell to start with. But somehow I still knew.”
Emma’s forehead scrunched up. A knot of panic took hold inside him. He didn’t want her to ever feel he didn’t want her. She’d had enough of that in her life.
“I wanted you. With fate or without fate,” he gritted out. He was close to the edge of his control.
“That . . . I want you too.” She ran her thumb down the side of Flint's face, her gaze roaming over his brown eyes and dark hair.
“Over and over, in fact,” Flint said.
“Oh, yeah? Like right now?” Emma's eyebrows arched high. She laughed.
He skimmed his hands over her torso. “Yeah.”
“How many times?” she asked.
“Oh, um, let’s see,” Flint said, drawing out the words deliberately. “It's a small cabin, but I'm a creative guy. Here, the bathroom, the kitchen, and the woodshed even.”
Emma's eyes widened. "The woodshed?"
