Page 70 of Hercules

Well, shit.

The Lion Man had become a newly whipped pussycat.

Which meant, in so many ways, that his lioness was right.

He had to order the fawning fuckery off. Right now.

Faster, at least, than the speed she was gaining on the wild idea that had already taken over her lips like a mountaineer ready to take on Everest. A reckless one. At this rate, she’d hit the summit but then tumble over the other side.

Unless a snarling lion got in her way.

“Yamaneko?” he prompted, dipping his head to ensure she caught his new meaning. The question mark wasn’t for his health.

When her pretty whiskys widened then narrowed in three seconds, he breathed easier—but his growl remained.

“That wasn’t rhetorical. Exactly what are you assuming I’ll allow you to help with?”

Her gaze flared again. But just as swiftly, retightened.

Well, shit.

While he was ready to self-flagellate for causing her the conflict, he also wondered what other methods would help it resurface. She was fiery and feline, this adorable Catwoman, especially when brandishing her own cute claws—and her whip-ready stance to help the cause.

“Herc.”

And she sure as hell brandished that weapon.

Except it wasn’t braided with the harsh hemp he expected.

Her voice was pure, husky silk… His fucking undoing.

“Please.”

God damn it.

“Okay, fine. Nat can be snotty and bossy and pissy and crafty. But she doesn’t deserve…” Her jaw clenched a second before her forehead pursed. Herc braced himself too, ready for the way she’d tilt up her face and unleash all that wrenching feminine energy on him.

Any…second…now…

What…the…?

It would’ve been a brutal blurt on his lips if he wasn’t so busy processing her abrupt pivot, twisting free from him. Then another step toward the kitchen. Another. Her plods were wooden but determined, as if her emotions were an invasion of acid and she didn’t want him to see the ugly tracks in her face.

Shitty metaphor—really shitty—but he was as lost here as her. What kind of woman hated her own feelings this much, while still having to access them enough to care for someone else like this? The kind of concern that compelled a figurative hike up Mount fucking Everest to rescue said someone else?

The kind of woman he yearned to grab again—and glue to his side for a long damn time.

“Crap. Yeah, all right. I said it, and I meant it. Natasha doesn’t deserve to be dragged down here and turned into Rizon’s zoned-out Zelda. Herc, we can’t ignore this. We have to do something!”

The kind of human he’d follow to the ends of the earth.

Though in this case, as thoroughly as he craved it, they probably weren’t going to get that far.

For now, he covered the same steps she’d covered into the kitchen: at this point, a welcome space with its functional lighting and sensible surfaces. Even out in the living room, there were too many pillows and cushions that screamed come on over; let’s see some action.

Not the kind of action her eyes were begging for anymore.

The insanity he had to address, sooner much more than later—especially if his senses were feeding him the correct keys to her insane airplane, as well as its intended destination.