Warrior's human mate

Chapter 16

James

I pulled a small black box from my pocket, its white ribbon neatly tied.

“I got you something,” I said, handing it to her.

She took it with a small smile, her fingers brushing over the ribbon.

“Hmm, you did, huh?” she mused. “You know my birthday isn’t until August.”

Her teasing tone made me want to roll my eyes, but I held back.

“You agreed to go on a date with me. I wanted to get you something. Besides, we’ll celebrate your birthday properly in August—with bigger gifts.”

I flashed her a confident smile, but she raised a brow.

“In August, I’ll be back in Latvia, so I doubt that.”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. My breath caught in my throat, and my smile faltered. She was still thinking about leaving—leaving the States, leaving me. I couldn’t bear the thought. One step at a time. Please, I begged whoever was listening.

I cleared my throat. “Could you open my gift now?”

“Alright, let’s see.”

She pulled the ribbon, letting it slip off before pausing. I held my breath as she lifted the lid.

Her fingers traced the moon-shaped jewelry inside. “Moon phases, huh?”

She studied the earrings—each a full moon, delicately set with small diamonds. Then her gaze fell on the necklace.

“And a howling wolf. It’s beautiful.”

Yes. I had designed that piece specifically for her. If I couldn’t mark her yet, maybe this would keep other men at bay. The wolf had a single diamond eye, surrounded by a crescent of smaller stones.

“But… why a wolf?” she asked, curiosity flickering in her eyes.

I met her gaze. “I’ve always felt that the wolf is… my spirit animal.”

It wasn’t a lie. We were two spirits in one body—she just didn’t know that detail yet.

She tilted her head. “Huh. Interesting. Wouldn’t have pegged you as the type to think about spirit animals.”

A small smile played on her lips.

“You’re judging me too harshly,” I said, raising a brow.

“Oh, absolutely.” She grinned, nodding enthusiastically.

So she found it amusing to judge me? I shook my head. Not fair.

“I think mine would be a horse. A wild one. The kind that runs free.”

Her voice turned dreamy, like she could picture herself galloping through open fields.

Then she smirked. “Though my friend once said she thinks my spirit animal is a wolf. Have you ever read Women Who Run with the Wolves?”

I perked up, my wolf stirring at the mention.

“No,” I admitted. Should I?

“My friend said that I'm like that. It’s fascinating but pretty deep. It talks about unconscious symbols in old fairy tales—how they connect to women’s instincts and wild nature. Lots of symbolism, so it’s not exactly light reading. Takes a lot of time to absorb it.”

Her voice quickened with excitement.

“Do you even read books?” she teased, shifting her focus back to me.

The last book I’d read was about six months ago. That still counted, right?

“Sometimes.”

Should I start reading more?

She shrugged. “I love physical books, even though digital ones are more convenient. There’s just something about turning real pages, you know? Though I guess it’s not the most environmentally friendly choice…”

She trailed off, absentmindedly running her fingers over the jewelry again. I liked this side of her—the way she shared her thoughts freely, without me even having to ask.

Her eyes flicked up to mine. “Do the moon shapes mean something too?”

“Yeah. The moon is special to me.”

Her brows lifted. “Really? Why?”

I hesitated for a second before replying.

“It’s been with me through a lot. On missions, in the wilderness at night. Sometimes, the moon was the only light guiding me… keeping me alive.”

That was only part of the truth, but it was all I could give her right now. She hummed in thought, studying the necklace again.

“And what kind of crystals are these?”

“They’re not crystals. They’re diamonds.”

I said it casually, but her head snapped up.

“What?!”

I smirked. “What?”

"James!"

Her voice carried a sharp warning. What now?

"How much did this cost?" she demanded, almost angry.

I hesitated. The way she asked made me want to spill the beans, but—

"Why does it matter?" I said instead. "It was nothing."

Her eyes narrowed, but before she could press further, the waitress arrived with our desserts—chocolate cake. I murmured a quick thanks, hoping the interruption would shift the mood. No such luck.

"You rich people!" she scolded the moment we were alone again. "I can’t accept this, James!"

Her defiant tone threw me off.

"Why not?" I asked, frustration creeping into my voice.

She shook her head. " I feel…Because it makes me feel uncomfortable."

I frowned. "Because they're diamonds?" What was the issue here?

"Because it’s expensive, James!" She exhaled sharply. "This is probably the most expensive thing I’ve ever received."

"So what?"

I would buy her a thousand gifts like this if she let me. She needed to start getting used to it.

Her eyes flashed. "Are you trying to buy me now? Is that it? This is exactly why I don’t date rich guys! I’m not a thing to be bought, and I’m definitely not a gold digger!"

With every word, her anger burned hotter. This was a disaster. I had thought she’d be happy, that the gift would bring us closer. Instead, I could feel her slipping away, looking at me like I was no different from every other entitled jerk. My heart tightened painfully.

"That’s not my intention," I said, my voice lower now, softer. "I just wanted to give you something. I hoped you’d like it. Just… please accept this one. I won’t give you diamonds again. I promise. I don’t want you to misunderstand or feel uncomfortable."

My sincerity must have come through because her features softened. She was quiet for a moment.

"Okay," she murmured. "I’ll accept this one. Thank you."

Relief washed over me. Maybe this wasn’t a total loss. Then—

"Or actually, no." For f***k’s sake.

"Can I sell it and donate the money to charity?"

My jaw tightened. "I’d rather you didn’t." My voice was firm. "I’d like to see you wear it one day."

This piece was made for her. She didn’t have to love it, but I wanted her to at least keep it. She hummed thoughtfully, picking at her cake. I followed suit, waiting.

"I can donate an equal amount to any charity you choose," I offered, trying for a compromise. She looked at me like I had missed the point entirely.

"No," she said, disappointed. "Charity isn’t just transferring money into an account. You have to be emotionally involved. If you want to donate, find someone who truly needs it. See their face. Learn their story—why they’re struggling. Write them a letter. Support them. Feel their happiness and sadness. And only then it’s real charity."

I listened carefully. Her words hit deep because she was right. It was easy to throw money at a problem and feel like a good person. It was much harder to get involved, to witness pain and struggle firsthand, to truly care.

"Okay," I said. "I’ll do it. The way you described."

She shook her head. "Don’t do it for me. Do it for those people who need it. " This woman.

"Do you?" I asked after a moment, curious now.

She blinked. "Do I what?"

"Do you do charity the way you just described?"

Her lips pressed together for a second before she answered. "A little."

"A little?"

She nodded. "I sponsor the education of three kids in India. Two girls, and one boy."

I was impressed. "Three kids? That sounds like a lot. How do you afford it?"

She shook her head. "It’s not a lot. It only takes about $220 a year per child to cover tuition, school supplies, books, and bags, free meals at school."

That was… surprisingly little.

"So have you met them? Talked to them?" I pressed, curious if she followed her own principles.

" Unfortunately, I haven't met them in person. Yet," she admitted. "But we write letters. I know about their families, their struggles, their milestones. If they need extra money for essentials—mostly food—I send it."

Her voice held a quiet sadness, a genuine concern for these kids. She wasn’t just talking about charity. She lived it.

I stared at her, awed. "You’re amazing."

She frowned. "No, I’m not." She had no idea, did she?

"Maggy Doyne is amazing," she said, passion lacing her voice. "The work she’s done in Nepal—for kids, orphans, women, the entire community—it’s incredible. And she’s American, by the way."

She shook her head. "What I do… it’s a tiny drop in the ocean, almost nothing in comparison. The way I see it, helping those in need is a duty, not something special. Who gets praised for simply doing their duty? No one."

I listened as she went on. "Sure, You.tube and Face.book are full of people filming their so-called ‘charity’ for likes and validation. That’s not charity—it’s satisfying your ego. Real charity is done in secret, without expecting applause. But even then, I think the purest form of giving isn’t just about money. It’s about investing your time, your labor, your heart into someone else’s life."

Her voice held a hint of frustration, but as she finished speaking, she grew thoughtful. Silence settled between us. I sat there, mesmerized, replaying every word she had just said. And then—

"I liked the story you told about these things. Okay, I’ll keep it."

My face lit up. Yes. She reached up, removing her earrings and setting them on the table.

I frowned. "What are you doing?"

She smirked, her eyes glinting playfully. "Well, you said you wanted to see it on me."

Slowly, she slipped on the diamond earrings, then unclasped the necklace and fastened it over her gold one. My breath hitched. What a sight.

"Perfect," I murmured, satisfied.

She tilted her head, admiring her reflection in a spoon. "Looks good, huh? Good. But I feel like I need insurance or some kind of alarm system just to wear it in public. Maybe I should even get a bodyguard."

I smirked. "I can be your bodyguard."

My voice came out huskier than I intended. Did she just shiver?

She let out a sharp laugh. "Ha! You? Guard this body? Please. You’d be too busy devouring it if I gave you the chance. So, in your dreams, James!"

My mind short-circuited. Devour this body. f***k.

The words left my lips before I could stop them. "In my dreams, I’m having you hard against a wall."

Her smile dropped. Her eyes widened, shock and disbelief flashing through them.

My own eyes went wide. Sh.it. Did I just say that out loud?!

I dragged a hand down my face. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that… out loud."

But the damage was done.

The truth was, I hadn’t slept properly since meeting her. Every night was the same—endless tossing and turning, her face haunting me, her scent clinging to my memory like a part of me. I was losing my mind. The exhaustion, the constant tension, the intoxicating way she smelled—it had clouded my brain.

Now, she was looking at me with something close to disappointment.

F*ck. She probably thinks I’m a big jerk. This was a martyrdom. I mentally wanted to kick myself.

She let out a soft, humorless laugh. "Well, at least now I know your real intentions."

Her words stung. But her eyes… there was a flicker of something else there. Something I couldn’t quite place.

"No, it’s not like that—"

She squinted, suspicious but still smirking. Then, to my utter horror, she leaned forward over the table, licking her lips slowly, dragging them over her teeth, making them pink and impossibly tempting.

My stomach clenched.

Then she c****d her head, her eyes locking onto mine with a challenge.

Oh, hell.

She bit her lower lip, just slightly, mouth parting—soft, inviting. What is she doing?

My pulse pounded.

"Really?" Her voice was low, teasing. "So when you see my full lips, you don’t wonder how they’d feel on your body kissing your cheek… your neck… your chest?"

I swallowed thickly. My skin erupted in goosebumps.

She was bold and daring, playing with fire. And I was burning alive.

She smirked, clearly noticing my reaction. "And in those dreams of yours…" she mused, voice dipping into something even more sinful, "do I trail wet kisses all over your body? Going lower… and lower… and lower?"

My c***k twitched painfully against my jeans as I sported a semi already.

I clenched my fists under the table. If I moved even an inch, I would lose every ounce of control I had left.

She picked up her spoon, scooped up a bite of chocolate cake, and slid it between her lips—never breaking eye contact.

Goddess. I was hypnotized.

She closed her eyes and let out a soft, satisfied moan.

"Mmm… that’s a good one."

I barely held back a groan of my own. This woman was going to ruin me mentally.

How I wished I was the one making her moan like that. I wanted to f***k her so hard she’d be panting, screaming, and moaning only my name.

"And when I put a spoon or fork in my mouth, don’t you imagine how it would feel if it was your d.ick instead?"

My mouth dropped open. She was bold. And yes—now I did imagine exactly that. I could feel her hot, wet mouth wrapped around me, and f***k—I probably just released some precum. She squinted her eyes at me, reading every thought written across my face.

"Don’t you imagine how it would feel if I licked your shaft with my wet tongue, just like I do with the spoon?"

She tilted her head slightly, feigning innocence. I gulped loudly. It’s official—she is the death of me. Her audacity, her confidence—it all took me by surprise. But I fu.cking loved it. Every second of it. My balls were probably turning blue at this point, and my self-control was hanging by a thread.

All I wanted was to grab her and f*ck her senseless right here on this damn table, in the middle of the restaurant, with no care for the people around us. I wanted to bury myself in her so deep that this agony, this torture, would finally end. My fingers gripped the cutlery so hard my knuckles turned white, as if that would somehow keep me in my seat, keep me from throwing her onto the table and making her mine right here and now.

She knew. She fu.cking knew. She saw everything in my eyes—the hunger, the desperation, the primal need.

And then…

"So I thought," she said, her voice dipping into something quieter, sadder. She nodded to herself, as if confirming something she already knew. "But you see, the thing is…I have more self-respect than just having s**x with you."

The disappointment in her eyes hit me harder than any punch ever could.

Then, before I could process what was happening, she stood up.

"Mr. Montgomery, thank you for inviting me to dinner. I appreciate it. Unfortunately, it’s been a long day, and I will be taking my leave now."

What?

She turned completely formal—cold, distant, like I was just some fu.cking stranger to her.

I shot up so fast my chair crashed to the ground, startling the customers around us. But I didn’t care.

"No! Wait! Stop!"

I reached for her, grabbing her by the elbow, turning her toward me. A sharp jolt of electricity shot through my skin at the contact, setting my whole body ablaze with desire. But I forced myself to shove it down. This wasn’t about that anymore.

She stared at my hand gripping her arm, then slowly lifted her gaze to meet mine.

And f*ck—her eyes burned with fury.

She didn’t even need to speak; I could feel what she was saying. How dare you touch me.

I was so screwed.

"I will be leaving now," she said, low and deliberate.

She didn’t demand that I let her go. She didn’t scream or cause a scene. No, she just looked at me—looked through me—so intensely that I felt my body submit to her.

I released her. I had no choice.

"I will see you next week when I have a meeting with Mrs. Montgomery."

She forced a polite smile. Then, her expression hardened, eyes narrowing.

"Or I won’t."

Venom dripped from those last words. Then, she turned and walked away.

F*cking great.

I clenched my fists, rage and frustration burning through me. Now she thinks I’m disgusting manwh.ore who only wants to get in her pants.*

And the worst part? She was right.

Because, f***k, I desperately did want to f***k her in every way, in every position, on every surface for hours on end.

But I also wanted more. And now? I had no idea how to fix this.

"I’m sorry! I am!"

I shouted trying to apologize, but she just waved her hand in the air.

"Save it."

She didn’t say it loud, more like to herself but thanks to my wolf hearing, I did hear it.

Laila

I got into the first taxi outside the restaurant, gave the driver my address, then sank into the seat with a deep sigh.

Disappointment. That’s what I felt. Dreadful disappointment washed over me in waves.

Not just in him, but in myself.

Idi.ot.

His words were like a bucket of ice water dumped over me. They sobered me up, dragging me out of whatever fantasyland I had let myself slip into. What had I been thinking?

That his words about romance, about relationships, were real? That he actually meant it when he said he was interested in me—as a person?

Stupid.

I had resisted him for so long because everything in me screamed danger. He was rich, ridiculously good-looking—no, not just handsome, but sinfully s.exy. A playboy. An American.

That combination alone should have been enough for me to strike him off my dating list before he even had a chance.

But he had been so persistent. He had sounded so sincere when he begged me to go out with him. And I had let myself believe it.

How naive of me.

Rich, handsome brats don’t do “interested in you.” They do “interested in f.ucking you.” That’s it. And his words tonight? They proved exactly that.

I should be grateful his tongue slipped. That he said it out loud. Because now I knew the truth.

One word rang in my mind: self-respect.

I had more self-respect than to be just another notch on his belt.

I exhaled sharply, annoyed at myself. What was I expecting? That all his loud words were true?

How f*cking stupid. But I still had self-respect. And I'll be d*maned if I lose it over my lustful hormones. I was too proud of a girl to lower my standards when dating a guy.

As we sat there, chatting, I found myself drifting into the depths of his mesmerizing blue eyes. What if, by the end of the evening, his charming smile had lured me in so completely that I’d given myself to him without a second thought? Served myself to him on a silver platter—exactly as he wanted. And then what? Come morning, I’d wake up alone in his bed, discarded like an afterthought. He would have taken what he needed, and there’d be no reason to stay. The shame, the guilt, the crushing disappointment in myself would be unbearable.

I exhaled, a small, bitter smile tugging at my lips. At least I hadn’t given him anything. Not yet. And I wouldn’t.

What was I even hoping for here? Did I want a relationship with him? If it was just a one-night stand, so what? I was an adult, and I had needs too. I could have used him for my own satisfaction, just as easily as he wanted to use me for his. And really, who wouldn’t want to spend a night with a man like him—a Greek God in human form—even if it was just once?

Yet the thought of "just one night" sent a dull ache through my chest. Why? Did I want more than that? Had he already gotten under my skin?

A wave of dread crashed over me. Soon, I’d be going back home. I couldn’t afford to let my heart get attached, not to someone on this side of the ocean. And worst of all—he was my client.

God, what was wrong with me? How could I have forgotten that? How could I have let myself get so carried away?

I absentmindedly played with the necklace around my neck—his necklace. I should probably give it back. In the end, it really was just a paycheck for my body, after all.

Though I told myself that two could play this game, in the end, I was the one who got burned. It backfired—again.

When I spoke those teasing words about kissing and licking his body, I didn’t just say them—I felt them. Imagined them. And the worst part? I wanted it. Desperately. I wanted to taste him, to kiss him, to take him in my mouth and drive him insane.

What was wrong with me? I never let men get under my skin this easily. But with him… it was different. And that terrified me.

My phone buzzed. I pulled it out of my purse, expecting a message from my friends or family.

Instead, the notification read: James the i***t.

My heart skipped but I rolled my eyes. Ugh, not now.

I opened the message.

I’m sorry, Laila. I really am.

I locked my phone without replying. A few seconds later, it buzzed again.

Please don’t be upset with me. Let me make it up to you. I know I was a complete j.erk when I said those things. But I’m not a man-wh.ore. I swear. I loved tonight. We were having such a great time.

Were we?

Because by the end of it, it felt like he had grown tired of me. Like he was just waiting to get the evening over with so he could finally drag me into bed. I locked the phone and raised my eyes to the streets again.

The phone buzzed again, making irritation sizzle my skin. Now what?

Please don’t cut me off like this. I promise you, for the next ten dates, I will be the perfect gentleman. Please, Laila!

I frowned. I typed back, irritated:

Who said there will be a next time or a next date?

Dots appeared on the screen.

Then his reply:

Please, Laila, give me another chance. I know I f****d up. But please, let me take you out again and prove myself to you. Pretty please! (Puppy eyes here.)

The “puppy eyes” made the corner of my lip go up a little. Then another message came.

I need you, Laila.

I stared at those words, my heart stuttering for a second. Who says such things to…basically to a stranger? What was this guy up to? And why me? Why did he got stuck on me?

I typed back:

If you have something to say to me, say it while looking into my eyes. I don’t discuss these things over messages.

Yup, if you can’t deal with me face to face then don’t even come close.

Fair enough. Can I come to your place now?

Oh, he thinks it’ll be that easy?

No. I’m tired.

When can I see you?

I smirked to myself. Let’s make him squirm.

Later.

He texted back almost instantly.

Okay. I’ll come tomorrow.

No.

Tuesday?

Still too early.

No.

When then?

Let’s see what a few days do to his enthusiasm. Maybe he’d cool off. Maybe he’d find someone else—someone more exciting, more willing.

The thought should have been a relief. But instead, a horrible idea crept into my mind. Was he sleeping with other women while flirting with me?

Technically, he could do whatever he wanted. We weren’t together. He owed me nothing.

But the idea of it made my stomach twist. It felt… wrong. Like a betrayal, even though that was ridiculous. We weren’t a thing. He was free to do as he pleased. So why did the thought of it bother me so much?

I let him stew for a moment before finally replying.

Wednesday after work. Six-ish.

His reply came immediately.

Deal. I’m sorry again. But thank you for tonight. I loved it. Sweet dreams, Laila.

I smiled to myself. We’ll see, James. We’ll see.