29: Secret Promises

Quincy St. Martin

He pulls out a big box that says ~Jon’s Pizzeria~ on top of it. Then he takes out a smaller box and places it next to the bigger one.

Next, he unzips another compartment in the bag and produces several cans of chilled drinks.

He opens the boxes and offers them to me. The big box contains pizza, and the smaller one has mozzarella sticks. I pick up a slice of the pizza.

It’s still warm and oh, so good!

“So good!” I moan around my first bite, and his body stiffens, his movements still.

I hear him exhale heavily as I take another big bite, and then he quickly crams a mozzarella stick into his mouth.

We both eat in silence.

He surprises me with another box before we even finish the pizza, and this one contains éclairs. It’s been ages since I last had one. My Nana and I shared the love for éclairs.

This man really knows the way to my heart. I forget why I was mad at him after my first slice of pizza.

By the time we finish the whole pizza and mozzarella sticks, I sigh in contentment and bliss.

Halfway through the éclair, I’m buzzing with happiness. The éclair is that good.

The choux pastry is crisp and light, and the crème pâtissière oozes divine vanilla goodness with every bite.

“Thank you. That was the best pizza I’ve ever had, and the éclair was amazing,” I tell him.

He just nods without a word and opens a can of root beer for me. Then we sit, sipping our drinks while watching the city lights below.

The silence between us is not awkward, but it’s kind of strange to have him sitting beside me without saying anything annoying. He looks very thoughtful, sipping his drink very slowly.

“So now you know what a monster I am,” he says quietly.

I turn to stare at his profile. The glow from the lights below is throwing the sharp contours of his face into a stark relief in the darkness, like a carved statue.

Perfect and beautiful.

“Am I scaring you? Are you disgusted by me? Is that why you want nothing to do with me now?” He turns his eyes on me.

“Yes, I mean no,” I stutter. “I’m not scared of you. I mean sort of, but not really, and you’re not a monster. I mean you sort of are, but not really. I mean…”

Arrgghh. I’m making a mess of things. I put my head in my hands and clamp my mouth shut, stopping myself from talking and digging myself deeper into a hole that I can’t crawl out of later if I keep going.

I take a deep breath before I lift my head up. He’s sitting facing me now. His sharp eyes glitter in the dark, watching me with intensity. He is my mate. I keep trying to come to terms with that fact. I’m not at all disgusted by him. Far from it.

I find him so beautiful, so perfect. If anything, I’m questioning, why me? As for wanting nothing to do with him, what choice do I have? Do I have a say? I don’t know much at all about lycans and about their mate bonds.

I hesitantly lift my hand and tentatively touch a finger to the back of his hand, which is resting on his knee. I immediately feel the energy passing from him to me, pulsing through my veins, warming my blood and sending tingles throughout my whole body.

Just one touch. His eyes follow my movement, but he doesn’t stop me.

When I trace my fingers up his arm, he tilts his head to the side as if he’s curious but fascinated by my action. His muscles clench under my fingertips.

I’m just very curious. This pull between us. This attraction. This connection.

He should be a stranger to me, yet this connection that we have makes me feel like nothing is more right than to be with him. Touching him feels good.

“I feel this pull, but I don’t understand it,” I whisper. “I’m not disgusted by you. Not at all,” I add quietly. “I told you what I am. I held nothing back. All you had to do was ask, yet you told me nothing about yourself. So, yeah, I was mad at you for not telling me what you are, when you had the chance last night.”

His fingers close around my hand, and he brings it up to press it against his lips.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to scare you off. I didn’t want to overwhelm you. I would’ve told you eventually. I thought if you knew what I am right away, you’d want nothing to do with me, you’d run away, and today just proved it.”

“I didn’t run away. Well, okay, I sort of did, but I just needed time to think. I want to understand, and I also need time to process it in my head, to make my decision. You know when you need time to adjust your thinking to a new reality? Like I grew up thinking that I’d marry a human and live among humans one day.”

“Wait! You wanted to marry a human?” he asks me, letting go of my hand, sounding offended.

“What’s wrong with humans?” I ask him, feeling insulted.

“Nothing,” he says quickly. Too quickly.

He runs his hand through his hair and over his face. “Great, now I have humans as my competition,” he mutters sullenly and almost disbelievingly.

I lift my root beer can up to my lips quickly to hide my grin. Who knew the mighty cocky lycan could feel threatened by humans?

I’m feeling flattered that he wants me enough to be worried about that.

We still have a lot to talk about, though, so I say, “I don’t know much about lycans. I don’t know much about you. Tell me about you.”

“My name is Caspian Nikolai Alexandrovich Romanov. Nikolai was my grandfather’s name. My father’s name is Alexandros. I was born in 1808 in Saint Petersburg, Russia. I was—”

“Wait! You were born in 1808? Seriously?” I ask him. “How is that possible? You look like you’re eighteen, twenty at the most. I know werewolves age slower than humans, but…really?”

“Well, lycans live for hundreds of years, ~moya printsessa~. We age like humans until we reach the age of eighteen or so, and then the aging slows down.”

I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as a realization hits me.

“Does that mean you’re still going to look like this sixty-two years from now?”

Something heavy tugs at my heart. My hands are fiddling with the edge of his jacket around my shoulders.

“More or less, yeah,” he answers, looking puzzled by my question.

Suddenly I feel sick. “Then I don’t think this is going to work,” I tell him, pointing my fingers between the two of us. “I’ll be eighty years old by then.”

Him looking like an eighteen-year-old boy and me looking like an eighty-year-old grandma, if I am still alive.

No. Just no. The two of us together would look ridiculous. It’s too painful to even think about it.

“Oh,” he says in sudden understanding. “That’s the least of your worries, though, sweetheart,” he says, looking uncomfortable. “I have a lot to explain to you, but first, you have to promise me something.”

“What’s that?” Oh, God, more bad news?

“Promise me you’re not going to run away from me. Whatever you do, don’t run off on me.”

No running away. “Okay, got it?”

He stares at me as if he’s trying to work out how serious I am, and then he takes my hand firmly in both of his and says, “Promise me.”

“Okay, I promise. Unless you try to kill me. Then I’ll run,” I say.

He shakes his head. “I told you we never kill our mates. I’d rather hurt myself than purposely hurt you, my love.”

I think my heart just melts. This man.