A Rebel Without Claws (Southern Charm #1)

5. ~Ronan~

Chapter 5

~Ronan~

The psychologist’s office was on the bottom floor of a two-story building on Camp Street in the Lower Garden District. I hadn’t visited this neighborhood in New Orleans yet, but it had a cool vibe. It reminded me of some of the areas in Austin where coffee shops, cool restaurants, and dog walkers dominated the scene.

I thought I had the wrong place when I walked through the wrought iron gate and up the few steps to an ornate glass front door. It looked more like a residence than an office building, but the metal plate next to the door inside the foyer on the left read Dr. Ashlyn Theriot, along with a string of letters behind her name. When I opened the door, it was to find a comfortable waiting area with soft music playing and one of those diffusers spraying a scenty oil.

A young, smartly dressed man at the desk stood and smiled. “Good morning. You must be Mr. Reed. ”

“I am.”

“We received your intake form online.”

I hadn’t filled out an intake form, so Uncle Shane must’ve done it for me. No telling what he wrote on that. Probably something like troubled adolescent, a year in juvenile detention, multiple arrests, a regular all-around pain in the ass to his family .

“You can come on in,” the receptionist said politely.

I realized I was still standing in the doorway that led to the foyer, holding the doorknob like I might bolt. I was thinking about it.

“Dr. Theriot will be right out. You can have a seat.”

But before I could do that, a middle-aged woman in pants and a blouse, her brown hair straight down to her shoulders, walked in from another door.

“Mr. Reed,” she greeted me warmly, extending her hand. “Thank you for coming.”

I took her hand and shook it, recognizing a familiar tingle of magic seeping into my body, calming my nerves. Though the last Aura witch I’d shaken hands with had had a completely different effect on me, I certainly recognized the similar signature of magic.

“You’re an Aura,” I said abruptly.

She smiled wider. “I am.” She let go of my hand. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s instinctual for me to make newcomers feel comfortable.”

She gestured to her open palm, knowing I’d sensed her using her witchy magic.

“It’s fine. ”

“Good. Right this way, please.” She led me into her office, which was similarly decorated as the reception area in cool blues, a comforting aesthetic.

She gestured for me to take a seat on her plush green love seat, and she sat in a velvet-covered club chair opposite me.

“Not what I was expecting,” I told her.

“What were you expecting?” she asked easily. “A stiff, vinyl sofa where you’d have to recline while I picked your brain?”

Chuckling, I admitted, “Something like that.”

“We try to make our clients feel as comfortable as possible while we’re picking their brains.”

She was teasing me. Another attempt to set me at ease. “I didn’t want to come here,” I admitted abruptly.

Her smile smoothed into a calm expression. “Your uncle told me that you probably wouldn’t want to. What made you decide to come?”

“I feel like I owe it to my uncle.” I sat deeper into the sofa.

“But you don’t owe it to yourself?”

She was good. I clasped my fingers loosely in my lap. “No offense. But I don’t think there is anything you can do for me.”

“Maybe there isn’t,” she said easily. “But maybe there is. We won’t know until we talk it through.”

I stared and waited for her to get started. When she realized I had no rebuttal because, fuck it all, she was right, she crossed her legs, leaving her hands in her lap, and said, “Why don’t we start with an easy topic for most werewolves?”

“Shoot. ”

“What is it that makes you angry? Something that would normally awaken a wolf.”

Smiling, I said, “Nothing. I don’t get angry.”

She blinked several times. “You don’t get angry?”

“Never have. I’m not that kind of wolf.”

“I see. What about other strong emotions? Fear or excitement?”

“Nope.”

“You don’t feel fear? Of any kind? Ever?”

I thought back, trying to remember a time I was afraid since the accident. “There was this one time I was babysitting one of my aunt Sarah’s sons. He fell off the slide in the backyard.”

“What did you do?”

“I picked him up and checked for injuries. He was fine.” “How did you feel?”

“What do you mean?”

“In that exact moment, did you feel that rush of panic, that sense of magic coursing through you.”

It was known that werewolves shifted once a month at the full moon to let the wolf loose. But they shifted sometimes in reaction to danger or fear, emotions that would call him to defend.

“I was scared for him for a second,” I said. “A momentary lapse in my own judgment in letting him try it on his own. He was still too young.”

“Your wolf didn’t rise to the surface? Sometimes, the wolf will come out to protect his loved ones.”

I simply shook my head.

“And what about moments of extreme joy or excitement? You must have those emotions. ”

“Oh yeah. When I win a fight. All the time.” “No sense of your magic then?”

I huffed a laugh. “I always find it interesting when people refer to a werewolf’s magic. You do know it’s a curse, right?”

She gave me a small smile. “If you’re asking if I know the history of how werewolves came into existence? Yes, I do. During the Spanish Inquisition, a powerful witch named Griselda hexed her captor and torturer, the Spanish officer Ortega, to be forever cursed by becoming the beast, the monster, she believed he was. And so it has been passed down that every male descended from that officer through the centuries has been forced to transform into a beast once a month to purge the monstrous instincts inside him.”

“Exactly. So I’m not even quite sure why it matters if I connect with my wolf or not. If he awakens or not. I’m kind of a lucky one, aren’t I? I escaped the curse.”

“So you’re saying you’ve never heard or felt your wolf? You’ve never transformed at all? Your uncle gave me little prior knowledge, wanting to respect your privacy. I know only the basics of your personal history.”

My gut tightened. “Yes, I’ve shifted a few times, but it stopped.”

“When was that?”

“When I was twelve.”

“Do you know why your wolf may have retreated?”

I stared at her, all calm and collected, asking me about my most heinous nightmare. I answered coolly, “I don’t want to talk about that.”

She held my stare, then finally nodded. “Being a werewolf isn’t all a curse, though, is it? The Goddess, or the Creator, whoever you believe in beyond our earthly realm, saw to it that wolves inherited not only the beast but also the gift of creativity. Every wolf I’ve ever known has had some kind of creative gift.”

“You’ve met a lot of werewolves, have you?” I raised a brow, curious and dubious at the same time.

“I have,” she said easily again. “And not just in my office,” she added quickly. “I happen to be married to one.”

“No shit?” I winced. “Sorry about the language.”

She laughed. “I’m not offended. And yes, no shit.”

I couldn’t help but smile. She was pretty cool, this shrink. “So I do know a little about wolves.”

“I guess you do.”

“What about lust?” she asked quickly. “Has that ever stirred your wolf?”

I flinched again. She had no issues getting personal fast. I opened my mouth to say no, because truly, my wolf had never reared its head ever for a woman. Except very recently.

“Yes and no,” I finally answered, frowning. “Why do you say yes?”

“Because a few days ago a woman’s presence made my wolf growl.”

For the first time, Dr. Theriot’s expression was something other than calm and cool. She was surprised. “Really? What happened?”

“It wasn’t lust, though. Well, not entirely. There was some- thing about her that made him stand up and pay attention.”

“I see.” She stared intently but didn’t add anything. “What does it mean?” I asked.

“It could mean many things or one very simple thing. ”

I grunted in annoyance. “That’s typical psychobabble—no offense. Can you tell me what you mean in plain English?”

Without missing a beat, she said, “It could mean that your change of scenery, this move to a new place that’s unfamiliar and strange with people you don’t know, has jolted your wolf into a defensive state. And he’s decided you need him. Or it could mean you’ve simply reached an age where your past trauma isn’t as sharp and your wolf finally feels safe to come out, though I don’t believe that’s the case. Or it could mean you’ve met your mate and your wolf noticed her first.” She paused. “Right away, actually, I’d imagine.”

The ensuing silence was almost suffocating. Blood rushed feverishly through my body, and my chest heaved with labored breaths.

“That can’t be true,” I said dumbly.

“Why not?” she asked in that annoyingly calm voice.

“I just met her last week.”

She smiled. “That doesn’t matter. You know that.”

“I do know that, but fuck, I shouldn’t be told by my damn shrink that I met my mate last week.”

“I said it was a possibility. And I much prefer therapist or counselor, please.”

“Right. Sorry.”

I stood and paced to the window, propping my hands on my hips. A red cardinal hopped from one branch to another on a crape myrtle tree in the front yard. It twitched its head back and forth, seeming to look at me for a split second before it hopped onto another branch.

“No,” I said with conviction. “It’s her. You’re right. She’s my mate. ”

“How can you be so sure?”

I grinned, remembering how many people had warned me off Celine since I’d shown even a tiny bit of interest in her.

“Because fate likes to fuck with me like that.”

“I don’t understand.”

I turned, walked back to the sofa, and took my seat, but leaning forward, elbows on my knees, hands clasped. “How do you know I’ve had a past trauma?” I asked her. “Did my uncle tell you?”

“No. Your aura.” She gestured with a finger, pointing around the perimeter of my body. “There’s a layer of a darker thread among the brighter colors. That tends to mean a lingering trauma.” Then she added with a smile, “Your aura is quite bright, though.”

“I was told that recently.”

“Really? By whom?”

“By my mate.”

She smiled, then added, “She’s an Aura witch? How interesting.”

I shook my head. “When a shrink—I mean therapist—says ‘how interesting,’ that can never be good.”

She laughed. “Or it could mean something very good.” “What do you think it means?” I turned the tables because I was genuinely interested.

“Aura witches are naturally and magically empathic. A partner like that would suit a wilder wolf who has a past trauma perfectly.” I sat back and considered what she was saying. I never needed anyone to calm me down as I rarely let anything offset my cool demeanor. But I was a bit wild, I’d admit. Aura witches used their innate magic to charm others with spells of happiness or serenity and such. That’s why they made perfect therapists .

“But I don’t need anyone to calm me down,” I stated honestly. “I’m fine.”

“So to be absolutely clear, you’re never emotionally out of control?”

A flash of memory hit me hard— a snarl, a squeal of tires, my mother screaming.

“Ronan?” A soft touch to the top of my hand made me flinch. “Are you okay?”

I inhaled a deep breath and blew it back out. “Fine.”

She studied me a few seconds, then nodded. “We’ll talk more about this next week.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Our time is up.”

“Damn, that went by fast.”

She stood and extended her hand for me to shake. “It usually does.”

I shook her hand. “Thank you, Dr. Theriot.”

“Will I actually see you next week? Or is this a waste of your time?”

I assured her, “I’ll see you next week.”

She walked me to the lobby where her assistant, Michael as he introduced himself, told me my appointment had been prepaid and my appointment was set for next week at the same time.

I couldn’t believe it, but I was actually smiling as I walked out into the foyer of the building. Then I instantly froze at the sound of her voice.

“You did a wonderful job, Elijah. I’ll see you next week.”

There she was, Celine Cruz, ushering a kid and his mother out of the main doorway onto the outside steps. When she turned, her expression must’ve mirrored mine—round-eyed shock. But there was actually a touch of fear in her eyes that instantly called up my protective instincts. Until I realized it was because of me.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, glancing around as if looking for an escape. My heart sickened.

She wore a pale green sundress with a tan cardigan, her wavy copper hair held back in one of those big clips. There was a loose lock hanging down one cheek, and I wanted to walk over and tuck it behind her ear and pull her close, then bury my nose against her skin.

Holy fuck, she truly was my mate. And she was currently a little afraid of me.

I didn’t want to admit why I was actually there. The thought she might think me weak made me want to spill my breakfast on the polished oak floor. But I couldn’t lie. Not to her.

“I, uh, had an appointment.” I gestured to the door behind me.

“With Dr. Theriot?” Her auburn brows rose, softening her sweet face.

“Yeah.” My voice was husky, my throat suddenly dry.

My gaze fell to the opposite doorway, the one behind her that was slightly ajar. The nameplate beside the door read Celine Cruz, MS, LPC .

“She’s a fantastic counselor,” she said quietly, which only made me more uncomfortable.

“So you’re a therapist?” I gestured to the door leading to her office, wanting to change the subject but also wanting to know more about her.

“I am.” She finally smiled, and I remembered how to breathe again.

“But for little kids? ”

“Yes. I actually use art therapy with children who have anxiety.” I glanced through the open door and saw a table with paints and teacups set on them. I couldn’t help but walk closer, drawn to her, lured in by everything about her. “Will you show me?”

She gulped hard, much more nervous than the first time we met. “Of course.”

She guided me into her office, which was set up differently than Dr. Theriot’s space. There was no reception desk, just the open room with several separate spaces. A sitting area with three comfy chairs in a circle, another area with stuffed animals and toys, another with an easel and a white dry-erase board. Currently, there was a childlike picture of a butterfly and a flower and someone’s rudimentary handwriting with I love you, Miss Celine on the whiteboard.

My entire chest caved in at the sweet beauty of this room and the love it evoked. With the woman at its center, how could fate possibly have assigned her to be my mate? I wasn’t good enough to wash her pretty feet.

“Your patients don’t call you Dr. Cruz?”

“I’m not a doctor. I’m a licensed counselor.”

“But you teach art therapy?”

“I double-majored in art and science as an undergrad.”

“I barely graduated high school.” Somehow, that was easy to tell her. Perhaps because I knew there were other ways than formal education to learn life lessons. Or that I innately knew she wouldn’t judge me for it.

“Not everyone needs a college degree to do well in life.” And there she went proving me right .

I chuckled, turning to face her. She looked more like the brazen angel in the garage now, her cloak of confidence hanging back around her shoulders where it should be.

“That’s what I always believed too.”

That air of knowing lingered between us, twining and weaving. We seemed to get one another even though we came from very different backgrounds and walks of life.

“What if your patient isn’t an artist?” I asked.

“You don’t have to be an artist to enjoy painting or drawing or weaving.”

She gestured to a table in the corner where a square loom sat with an unfinished tapestry on it. The kid who weaved it had missed a loop or two and had pulled the thread too tight on one side where it was bunching up.

“And how does the art help them exactly?”

“It’s soothing to the brain and relaxes emotions. It’s a calming activity that helps them open up and allows me to help them work through their anxieties, to develop coping skills when they’re out in the world.”

I let that soak in a minute. “Can I try?”

“Painting teacups?” Her brows shot up.

I nodded.

“Of course.” She didn’t mock me or seem shocked that a big oaf like me wanted to paint. Again, I was surprised and not surprised by her.

She gestured for me to sit, so I did, while she opened a cabinet along the wall where I could see a line of plain white teacups. She brought one over and set it in front of me, then took her seat next to me where she’d been painting her own with the little boy, Elijah .

“So what am I supposed to paint exactly? Like leaves or something.”

“Whatever you want. Abstract designs, leaves, flowers, kittens.”

“Flowers and kittens, huh?”

She smirked.

I picked up the paintbrush. “I’ll probably fuck this up.”

“It doesn’t matter. We all make mistakes. The important thing is to keep going. To keep moving forward.”

Damn, she was amazing.

I dipped my brush in the sky-blue and started to paint. She did the same. I noticed her design was feminine and precise, a chain of green leaves connected by a delicately looped vine.

We painted in silence for a while, only the sound of her soft classical music on low volume and of an occasional passing car disturbing our quiet. It was remarkably soothing. So much so that I fell into an easy rhythm, finding the design that made sense. While we both focused on our work, I couldn’t help but want to confide something.

“I do draw, you know.”

“Do you?” she asked casually as she dipped the tip of her paintbrush into the forest-green paint. “That doesn’t surprise me, though.”

“Why’s that?”

“All werewolves have a creative talent.”

“You know a lot about werewolves?”

She stopped painting, her hand frozen in the air as she looked up at me. “You didn’t do much homework about me, did you?”

When I didn’t know what to say to that, she went back to painting and said, “My father is a werewolf. My two brothers, Diego and Joaquin, are too. We’re triplets. Well, Joaquin is actually both a werewolf and a warlock. Not many of them according to history. Oh, and my uncle.”

I did know that her uncle Nico was a werewolf, but I hadn’t asked enough questions about the rest of her family. I’m sure I stared like an idiot. “No, I guess I didn’t do my homework. I had no idea.”

I’d just assumed her witch mom had married a warlock. No one had mentioned her dad was a fucking werewolf. No wonder he was overprotective. Most wolves were of the women in their lives. This new knowledge didn’t deter me at all. Rather, it was encouraging.

I settled back to painting, finding my rhythm in the design quickly.

“So you’re not opposed to dating werewolves then.”

She kept painting, a pretty blush pinking her cheeks. “No. I’m not opposed to dating anyone who is a good person.”

Interesting and acceptable answer. “I’m a good person.”

She laughed as she dipped her brush again, the sound spreading warmth through my chest.

“Okay, Mr. Good Person. What is it you needed a fresh start from?”

While continuing to paint, I said, “I’m a wolf cage fighter, and that’s illegal back in Texas. I might’ve worn out my welcome on the supernatural scene by being in a few bar fights in Austin, but let me explain.” I dipped my brush in the purple paint. “I never started the fights in the bars. I only finished them. I just made a lot of enemies in the underground ring.”

“I’ve never even heard of wolf cage fighting before. What is it exactly? ”

“Similar to UFC fighting, but a bit more . . . brutal.”

She set her teacup and brush down. “So you moved here to find a new career?”

“Oh, no.”

I finished the last flourish of the artwork on my teacup and set the brush down, wanting to look her in the eyes.

“I’m a fighter. That’s what I was meant to do. In Louisiana, it’s legal. I want to organize my own team. Wolf cage fighting always happens in circuits with a team. I want to climb to the top, become the champion in the United States. Then maybe even go to the international circuit.”

She stared at me with a mixture of wonder and a touch of fear yet again. I hated seeing that look in her eyes.

“You’re afraid.” I could hear her speeding pulse. “But there’s no need. It’s just a sport like any other.”

“It’s not like any other. Your goal isn’t to get a ball in the end zone. It’s to beat your opponent into submission.”

“True. But every man who fights understands that. It isn’t as if we are stepping into the ring ignorant of the pain.”

“What about the danger? The danger of severe injury or death.”

“No one dies in the ring.”

“But they could.”

“I won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m the best. I never lose.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

Holding back the sigh of frustration I wanted to let out, I asked, “So you won’t date me because I’m a fighter?”

“I never said I’d date you at all, even before I learned your profession. ”

I stood from the table. “But you will, Celine.”

She stood, too, lifting the teacup, and turned as if to put it on the back shelf to dry.

“Celine,” I said softly, touching her forearm.

She gasped and dropped the teacup, which shattered into several pieces.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” I bent with her to pick up the shards.

“It’s okay. I’m a little jumpy.”

“Because of me?” I asked, both of us crouched and facing each other.

She held my gaze. “Yes.”

“I don’t want to make you nervous.” A small pang pinched me on the inside.

But then she smiled. “I can’t help it.” Her gaze swept over my face with obvious admiration. “You’re . . . you.”

Now my heart was racing. The thought that these feelings were mutual and charging forward with dramatic speed was both euphoric and terrifying.

I took the broken pieces from her hands and dropped them in the trash can next to the table, then I returned to her side. I took her hand slowly in mine and lifted it to press a light kiss to the inside of her wrist where her pulse beat wildly.

“I’m sorry about the teacup.” I reached down and lifted my teacup carefully off the table and handed it to her.

“You don’t have to give it to me.”

“I want you to have it.”

Her mouth slightly ajar, she slowly took the cup, careful not to touch the wet paint. The design had come to me quickly. They were a series of interconnected and overlapping feathers. I’d used two shades of blue, the darker for the detailing, creating a trail of wispy feathers all the way around the rim. On one side, I’d painted a line drawing of a female angel with a golden halo, the only color other than the blues.

“It’s how I see you,” I admitted boldly.

She remained frozen, those heartfelt green eyes on me. “Elegant and beautiful.” Tucking my hands in my jeans pockets, I backed toward the door. “I’ll see you soon, Celine.”

Then I turned and forced myself to walk away, cherishing that small smile that tilted her pretty mouth when she gazed down at the fragile teacup in her hands that I’d painted for her.