Page 54 of A Sip of Bourbon
Moab laughed, a deep, rolling sound. “You bag the Queen yet, or is she still playing hard to get?”
“Bagged, tagged, and signed in blood,” I said, and the table erupted in howls.
For a second, I watched Carrie. She was surrounded by a clutch of old-guard distributors, every one of them vying for ascrap of her attention, but she handled them like she was playing chess and everyone else was stuck on checkers. She smiled, nodded, countered every compliment with a sharper one, her confidence absolute. But I could see the way she kept glancing my direction, the hunger that hadn’t left her eyes since the office.
I felt it too. The mate bond was a live wire, every jolt of arousal, every flicker of thought zipping between us. Even from across the room, I knew she wanted me again—wanted me on her, in her, maybe under her if she felt like breaking the desk this time.
She raised her glass for a toast, and the room fell silent by unspoken command. “Tonight is about new partnerships,” she said, “and about respecting the old ones that built us. Here’s to bridges, not fences—and to traditions that can survive a little wildfire.”
Her eyes found me, and even in a room of two hundred, I felt like we were the only ones alive. I raised my own glass, and the room followed suit.
The night wound on. Bourbon flowed, deals were struck, and the press took enough photos to fill a year’s worth of think pieces. Through it all, Carrie and I moved in parallel orbits, never quite touching, always aware. Sometimes she’d graze my hand in passing, or slide a finger down the seam of my jacket as she walked by. Each time, the jolt of the bond sent a fresh pulse of blood south, kept me on edge and hungry.
When the last of the guests had drained their glasses and the legacy houses had retreated to their black cars and secret handshakes, Carrie stood by the exit, bidding farewell to each guest with a smile and a whisper. I drifted behind her, a silent shadow, the wolf in me perfectly content to guard the den.
She closed the door on the final guest and turned to face me, her eyes molten gold in the dying light. “Ready for round two?” she said, but the question was a formality.
“Always,” I replied. “But let’s make it a fair fight this time.”
She locked the doors, then walked to the center of the empty hall and waited for me. I followed, boots echoing on the old hardwood, and when I reached her, she didn’t waste time. She put her hand on my chest, right over the heart, and leaned in.
“If you ever betray me,” she whispered, “I’ll gut you myself.”
I laughed, knowing she meant it, and kissed her so hard it left us both dizzy.
The chandeliers dimmed, the world spun, and for one perfect second, I saw our reflection in the mirrored bar: her, the bourbon queen, and me, the bastard wolf at her side. The mate mark glowed on both of us, pulsing with life, with promise.
This was our kingdom now—bottle, bone, and blood.
