Bigfoot’s Mate (Mates for Monsters: Sasquatch #3)

3. Deborah

CHAPTER 3

DEBORAH

Seventeen days ago...

Mmm, warm. Cozy. I'm wrapped in the softest fur blanket ever. It feels like I'm being hugged by a giant teddy bear. I snuggle deeper, savoring the sensation, not ready to leave this dreamy cocoon. Wait a minute. Fur blanket?

My eyes snap open, and I'm staring at a stone wall. Stone? What the actual...?

Think, Deborah. Think.

I wrack my brain, trying to piece together memory fragments. The bail hearing. The sketchy van ride. A mountain opening like some kind of Bond villain's lair. And then...

Oh, no!

The warm, furry thing around me is moving. It’s…breathing?

Panic surges through me. I sit bolt upright, unleashing a bloodcurdling scream.

Then, my eyes roll back in my head and, again, everything goes black.

When consciousness slowly returns, I blink up at the ceiling.

Sluggishly, my brain reminds me of where I am.

Startling hard, I take a panicked look around, but I’m alone in the room. The furry blanket is gone.

That fucking lawyer.

Keep an open mind. Ha! I'd like to give him an open mind. Or better yet, a closed fist—right to his pudgy red face.

A tantalizing aroma wafts through the air. I take a few deep sniffs. Yum. Smells delicious. Chicken soup, maybe?

My stomach growls, reminding me of how empty it is.

Wait. Chicken?

Frantically, I inventory my body parts, making sure all my limbs are still attached and not currently simmering in a giant cauldron of monster soup.

Arms? Check.

Legs? Check.

Fingers and toes? When everything seems to be present and accounted for, I chuckle wryly at my own ridiculousness.

Deborah, you never should have watched that Jeffrey Dahmer series on Netflix.

What’s my next move? Formulate an escape plan? Come up with some sort of SOS message?

Before I can decide, a huge, hairy beast appears in the doorway. My heart lodges in my throat. My eyes travel nervously around the room in search of a weapon of some sort—anything I can use to defend myself—when the creature speaks.

"You're awake," the monster-beast rumbles in a surprisingly gentle voice.

Wait. It talks?! Speaks English? Possesses intelligence?

"I've prepared some soup for you."

Soup, huh? I eye him suspiciously. "What kind of soup?"

"Chicken noodle." He appears uncertain, as though seeking my approval. "Well, I didn't actually make it. Just warmed it up.”

I can't help myself. "Is that what your kind usually eats? Chicken?"

He shrugs his massive shoulders. "We eat a variety of foods."

“Any humans in that varied diet of yours?” The question slips out before I can second-guess myself.

His eyes widen in horror. “Humans? No! Of course not!"

"So, I'm not here to become monster chow?" I press, needing to be absolutely sure.

He stares at me with wide eyes and a gaping maw, looking too stunned to form words, so I barrel on.

"What exactly are you? Some kind of—” I snap my fingers as realization dawns. "Bigfoot!"

He winces before swallowing hard and then clearing his throat. "Sasquatch," he corrects gently. "We prefer Sasquatch. Or just Squatch."

A shiver runs through me, and he takes a step closer, his arms outstretched as if he intends to wrap them around me. I flinch away instinctively, flattening my back to the headboard.

Oh, damn. Guilt washes over me when I see a hurt expression flash across his face.

The Sasquatch looks around the room, spots a blanket folded on a rough-hewn log chair, and hands it to me, his arm fully outstretched, being careful to keep the rest of his body as far away from me as possible—which makes me feel like shit.

Mentally, I kick myself. I’m such an ungrateful bitch. Clearly, he caught me when I fainted, carried me here—he even prepared food for me, and I'm treating him like he's some savage, uncivilized beast waiting to gnaw on my carcass. My nana raised me up with better manners than this.

"Thank you," I murmur, then in a belated attempt at politeness, add, “Sir.”

He nods and lumbers off. As he disappears down the hall, I take a moment to really look around the room. It's...cozy, in a rustic-chic sort of way. The walls are smooth stone, adorned with intricate carvings. The furniture is rustic but comfortable, a mix of wooden pieces and plush cushions.

I'm still taking it all in when Dafydd returns moments later carrying a tray with a steaming bowl of soup and a glass of water.

I try to eat, I really do. And I manage to down a few bites. But these days, nausea is my constant companion, and it's getting harder and harder to keep anything down.

“You don’t like soup?" he asks, concern evident in his voice. “I’ll prepare something else for you. Just tell me what you want.”

I shake my head. "It's not that. I love chicken noodle soup." Or at least, I used to, before this damn sickness stole my taste buds along with everything else.

"Why are you taking care of me like this?" I ask, genuinely curious.

His expression softens and his mouth breaks into a huge grin, the tips of his fangs digging into his bottom lip. He has fangs! It’s not weird that a large, hairy Sasquatch monster-beast would have fangs. No, what’s weird is how sexy I find them.

Lord, help me, but he’s attractive.

I know, I know, a giant hairy Sasquatch attractive? I should be committed, right? Then again, I’ve always believed that a person’s beauty shines from the inside out, and this large monster-beast clearly has an innate kindness that’s brighter than the noonday sun.

He also radiates a raw, alpha male vibe, an underlying power and strength—and that right there is a deadly combination, one that’s always dampened my panties and turned me into a total drooling fool.

“I’d like for us to be mates. Uh…companions.” His brow furrows and again his fangs dig into his bottom lip as he searches for words. “I would like to court you.” He gives a succinct nod of his head as if to accentuate the point.

Okay, of all the responses he could give, that was maybe the most unexpected.

I manage a weak smile, thinking he’s making a joke. But when I see the sincerity in his eyes, the genuine affection, I’m so taken aback that I feel tears sting the backs of my eyes.

"Oh, honey.” I huff a humorless, pitying laugh. “No. No, I’m not…no, baby. You’re gonna need to find yourself another woman to court because I have an expiration date." Literally.

His brow furrows. “Expiration date?”

“Yeah, baby. I’m not going to be around for much longer.”

“You’re sick?" I watch his face fall as he leans forward slightly.

“I am,” I admit quietly but matter-of-factly.

"I can help you. I’ll heal you and care for you until you're recovered.”

At this point, I’ve come to terms with my own demise. I’ve gotten all my ducks in a row, but the sheer hopefulness in his voice, the pleading in his tone, touches me so deeply that I choke up. My eyes fill with moisture. I struggle to blink the tears away, and I’m successful for the most part, but a single tear manages to escape.

His face contorts into a pained expression as his eyes follow my tear trail a lone path down my cheek. I think he might reach out and swipe it away with his large, long finger. My gaze travels over his broad shoulders to his heavily muscled biceps to his handsome human-like features and then I meet his intense gaze. And suddenly, I want him to—I want him to touch me.

Shit. I sniffle and shake my head. “What I have… It's not something that can be cured, big guy."

“Dafydd. My name is Dafydd.”

“Dafydd.” The word feels good on my lips. I smile sadly. “I’m Deborah.”

“Deborah.” When he says my name with his low, raspy, growl, it shoots tingles straight to my core. "Please, allow me to cure you. I just need your permission." He reaches out and envelops my hand in his much larger one and it’s like an electric current runs between us, connecting us. Does he feel it too? He must.

“Please. Permit me. Say yes,” he persists.

He wants my permission to let him cure me. I have no idea what kind of Sasquatch remedies or tinctures or which doctor spells his people employ, but I do know nothing can reverse the damage to my organs.

“It’s not possible,” I repeat softly.

“Permission,” he insists gruffly.

He's being obtuse, not listening to what I'm saying. Or refusing to believe it.

Is it crazy? Absolutely. But then again, my life has taken a sharp left turn into Crazytown anyway. What do I really have to lose? Nothing. I’ve already lost it all, so what’s the worst that can happen?

Well, Deborah, you could grow three feet taller and sprout fur all over.

I sigh loudly and wave my hand dismissively. “Fine. Sure. Whatever. You have my permission."

My stomach all of a sudden thinks it’s Simone Biles and does a roundoff-handspring-aerial-triple twist. Fuck. I can't even keep down a few sips of water and spoonfuls of soup. I’m going to puke.

“I need a bathroom. Fast.” With a hand cupping my mouth, I gingerly swing my legs off the bed.

He gestures toward a hallway off to the left. "Right down there."

The moment I stand, though, the room spins. Darkness creeps along the edges of my vision, and my knees give out. I feel myself falling.

Vaguely I’m aware of a sense of déjà vu as, once again, strong arms catch me…

And as, once again, a sense of warmth envelops me…

And as, once again, the whisper of two simple words floats through my mind— I’m home.