Lone Werewolf Duology (bxb)

25. Liam's Hope

Normally, Volya would have snarled if someone touched his face out of the blue. If it were a guy, he'd punched him. Unless it was Toshka... a guy could dream, right? But Anabelle wasn't a guy, let alone Toshka. When she squeezed his chin, while staring deep into his eyes, it placed high on his list of the most embarrassing events in his life. Maybe it didn't take the grand prize, being a couple of points lower on the mortification scale than dropping his pants down by the Mnemosyne. But only just.

"His eyes were like mine? Why?" His eyes crossed, focusing on her fingers, mind grinding to a halt.

"Well, I don't know why." Anabelle, thankfully, released him. She gave him a tiny frustrated shrug. "It's just the more I look at you, the more I'm sure you have exactly the same eyes as that shaman."

What was he supposed to say to that? Sorry? She ought to be traumatized. Sorry wouldn't cut it.

"Sorry?" he said.

Anabelle, however, didn't look the least bit upset with her head tilted to one shoulder. Her long hair spilled so prettily over it, that it couldn't have been an accident.

She shrugged. "Not your fault. And your eyes are pretty."

Volya expelled a relieved sigh: at least his ocular mess didn't reduce her to tears. A solid win right there. But, naturally, this couldn't have been the end of the underwater stones.

"So, what do you think about girls?" Anabelle went on, like it linked perfectly with the compliment. No rest for the wicked.

"Girls... girls?" Volya repeated the word experimentally in English. "Which girls?"

Okay, so he was caught off guard, but did he have to parrot her? He should just have said they were fine and dandy, and be done with it.

Anabelle's eyes lit up with delight.

"Girls in general, I guess. Like, girls our age?" Her curved eyelashes fluttered with pretend innocence.

Okay, it shouldn't be hard to get back on track from this detour. Volya broke eye contact to collect shattered earthenware from the sink. He paid it as much attention as he could, because who needs a bleeding cut? Not on top of this conversation, that's for bloody sure.

"I don't really know many girls. They're fine and dandy, I suppose? I'm just more comfortable around guys my age."

There! He did it. A nice and polite response. Frigging A!

He straightened with his hands full of shards and looked around for a trash can.

Anabelle leaned from her impressive height to pat his right knee.

He squirmed a little, before it dawned at him that his leg was legit in the way.

"Sorry..." he muttered, reprising his bumbling idiot role. It seemed to stick to him for life.

"Thanks for helping," she said, opening the lower cabinet so he could dispose of his troublesome load.

When he shook off the last bit from his hands, Anabelle peered into his face again, grinning from ear to ear. "So, do you think girls are pretty?"

He didn't say any such thing and he grew tired of her needling. "I don't really think about girls that way, okay? I should get—" get going, he intended to say, but Anabelle glanced above his head to something behind him. Her grin spread even wider.

"Did you hear that? He doesn't think girls are pretty!" She sounded pouty, like his romantic choices were directed against her personally. Maybe he should have said she was pretty, then she wouldn't be complaining to that person behind him. Because, obviously, it wasn't something behind his back, but someone.