Chapter 4 • Naked Evidence

Chapter 4

Naked Evidence

Clarissa

His question was startling and he asked so quietly yet I heard it in the depths of my soul. I was unaware of the moment I let go but my portrait was in his hands now and he was frowning down at it.

 “Kaira, make yourself scarce,” I ordered, putting enough hauteur in my voice to leave no room for questions. Already feeling chastised by her own stupidity, she curtsied and exited the room gracefully. Carlin’s back was to me and the curve of his shoulders reminded me of the rocky hills surrounding their pack—solid and dependable. He was a mountain of a male, the youthful version of the warrior his father had once been.

 “How is this possible?” he seemed to be murmuring to himself as he moved away from me with the image still in his possession. I followed him, not knowing what to say to him. He stopped and dug his feet into the damp flooring.

 “Can you please explain this?” he fired at me, a hint of suspicion underlying his words. I came to a stop beside him and took my precious portrait from his big grasp gently. While I stalled, I was calculating my words with all precision, wondering how to explain. However, I had to be sure of his claim. The portrait was headless, meaning that he had recognized his torso in the picture, a vain yet intelligent observation. He watched me stand before him, my fingers brushing deliberately against the hem of his hide shirt.

 “I will tell you all you want to know but first, how do I know this is your torso? Have you evidence to back up your claim?”

 He snorted almost immediately, understanding where I was headed with my question. I quirked a brow, daring him to refuse but he quickly turned the tables on me. I had not realized how close I was to the wall until he invaded my space with a determined step, urging me to move backward. He was at most three heads taller than me and he used every inch of it to his advantage.

 “Are you sure, Princess?” he mocked, his breath landing softly on the top of my head. I nodded, not trusting my voice to sound as strong as I wanted it to. His amber eyes still locked on my blue ones, his fingers went to the bottom of his shirt and peeled it off in one smooth, swift move. The thud of the shirt hitting the floor sounded as loud as the boom of thunder. My breath was snatched away with the shirt and I stared unabashedly at the sculpted male specimen of deliciousness. Reluctantly, I willed my eyes to peer at my small portrait as I made the comparisons.

 For easier perusal, I placed it close to his chest. My eyes darted to and fro—image to the torso— as I noted the possibility that he was right. Down at my side, the fingers on my left hand itched to partake in the examination. His chest was like a jungle without the wild trees and animals, the hairs loops and curls so tight and long that they would make a fun game of undoing them. Carlin stood perfectly still and I noticed the tightening of his jaw every now and then. Unable to resist the living temptation in front of me, I traced my left hand over an old scar that had left an indentation below his collarbone.

 He sucked in the air and let it out so fast that I withdrew my touch. Instead, he grabbed my wrist and replaced it over the scar, his eyes shutting briefly. When his lashes parted, the heat in his golden eyes had flown up a notch, technically making them balls of fire. My fingers curved over the spot and he let out another gushing sigh that made me weak in the knees. When he was somehow assured that I would not take my hand away, he slipped his grip off my wrist and relaxed.

 “Yes, there are a lot of resemblances,” I concurred when I found my voice and cleared my throat to get rid of any residual emotion. “Like over here, you have a burn mark exactly the same as my portrait and the happy trail is. . .” I paused, feeling a rush of blood in my cheeks. Completing that sentence would send me up in a blazing fire of embarrassment and so I zipped my mouth shut. 

 “Satisfied with evidence then?” he grunted, his voice a bit gruffer than before. I met his eyes again and they were focused down below. It was then I realized that my hand was still on him, drawing nonsensical scribbles and patterns on his broad, hairy chest. I blinked rapidly, shocked at the subconscious activity of my own hand. He gently took the portrait from my grip and placed it out of sight. The temperature of the booth had tripled but I was not sweating on the outside, my innards were too warm. 

 “So about that explanation,” he cut in abruptly, killing the moment. “Can I have it now that you are done mapping out hidden caves all over me?” Humor was back in his voice, no doubt an attempt to lighten the mood. I reluctantly took my hand off him, the tips of my fingers tingling with exciting tension. I suddenly wanted to sit somewhere far away from him so I could catch my breath. Poking at a bicep to get him to move back yielded no positive results and his scent swam around me stubbornly. Goddess, why did he smell so good? I threw up my hands in sexual frustration.

 “There’s nothing to give! I don’t understand any of it at all but I will tell you what I know. Would you please sit down at least? You are towering over me and your height is intimidating.” 

 Without breaking eye contact, he located a tree stump that passed for a seat and sat on it, moving with a fluid animalistic grace like the predator he probably was. I could not wait to see how magnificent his wolf would be. The height disadvantage gone, I felt more at ease in his presence.

 “You won’t believe me when I tell you this but you don’t have to. I barely believe myself anyways. Here goes. I had that painting made by the man in my dreams. He comes. . . whenever I am asleep to. . .  to be. . . to be with me briefly.” Dreamily, I picked up my portrait again and traced my fingers over the back. “His name is Lance or so I etched it at the back. . . no, Dream Me calls him Lance and he calls me. . .”

 “Amaya,” Carlin stole the name from my lips, packing as much emotion into the three-syllabic name. “He calls you Amaya.”