Wolf Fated

Chapter Seven

Sarah

Iall but flee from the kitchen, my cheeks burning with arousal and embarrassment. I still feel the weight of his searing gaze upon me, as if the sexy sheriff had the power to strip me bare and lay my secrets exposed.

Except one secret in particular remains firmly cloaked, hidden beneath the layers of damp cotton that cling to my thighs. Because despite my best efforts, despite every ounce of willpower I could muster, I couldn”t stop the visceral reaction that his presence elicited.

Pure, potent male power would be words I’d use to sum him up, and even they wouldn’t be enough.

I”ve ruined my panties, just from the simple act of standing in the same room as him, breathing in his intoxicating scent and drinking in the raw masculinity that radiates from his every pore.

Heat floods my cheeks at the realization, and I quicken my pace, desperate to put as much distance between us as possible before he can catch a whiff of my arousal. I”ve never been so utterly undone by a man before, never felt such all-consuming need that borders on the animalistic.

Part of me, the part that still clings to the remnants of logic and reason, screams at me to run, to flee this town and the dangerous temptation. I”ve barely managed to extract myself from one disastrous relationship–do I really want to risk plunging headfirst into another, especially with a man who exudes such an aura of danger and raw, unbridled passion? Another part of me, a treacherous, wanton side that’s newly awoken tells me to surrender.

And why the hell am I even thinking relationships at all? The guy just gave me a cup of coffee. Not an engagement ring.

I long to bury my face in the crook of his neck, to breathe in the heady musk that clings to his sun-kissed skin. To press myself against the hard planes of his body and let him take me.

Claim me.

Make me his in every sense of the word, and hell if that doesn’t send another wet burst of arousal sliding between my thighs. But then, the image of Mark”s bobbing bare ass, a timely reminder of my own foolishness.

Anger surges through me, hot and caustic, burning away any lingering tendrils of desire. How could I have been so blind? So naive? How could I have given Mark not only my heart, but my trust, my loyalty, only to have it all thrown back in my face?

I should know better than that.

I can only trust men as far as I can throw them, and as a curvy five and a half foot woman who hasn’t had time to set foot in the gym in years, that isn’t far.

As the sting of betrayal and humiliation washes over me, the fury that has been simmering beneath the surface erupts in a blinding flash of white-hot rage. In that moment, I make a decision–a decision born of pain and heartbreak, but also of a newfound determination to never again be so blindsided.

I will leave this town, just as I planned. I will pack my suitcase and hit the road, putting as many miles as possible between myself and the temptation of the sheriff. Because, as alluring and intoxicating as he may be, I won’t be drawn in by another man.

Not again.

Never again.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I make my way back to my room and begin gathering my things, my movements sharp and efficient. After a quick shower, I stuff my clothes haphazardly into my suitcase, not caring if they become wrinkled or creased in the process.

All that matters is getting out of here, putting this strange little town and the dangerous allure of the man in charge behind me. Self-preservation at its best.

I don’t even know where I’ll go. It’s not like I have many choices. I can’t knock on a relative’s door and ask to stay for a while. All I can hope for is to find another hotel as nice as this one. Keep driving until I find a place I can see myself staying for a while. It’s the one and only benefit of truly being alone in the world.

As I sling the bag over my shoulder and make my way to the front desk, I catch sight of Cindi”s expectant gaze, her green eyes shining with a disappointment that I can”t quite place.

”Checking out already?” she asks, her tone laced with curiosity and concern.

I nod, forcing a tight smile onto my lips as I fish in my pocket for my credit card. ”The room was lovely, but I really should be on my way.”

The words taste like ash on my tongue, a lie so blatant that even I can hear the hollowness behind them, but I push forward nonetheless, handing Cindi my card and waiting for her to process the payment.

Except it doesn”t go through.

She frowns, her brow wrinkles as she tries again, only to be met with the same error message. ”That”s strange. Let me try something else.”

But no matter what she tries, the result is the same – my card is declined, leaving me with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that has nothing to do with the embarrassment of the situation.

As the realization hits me, a wave of dread washes over me, icy tendrils of fear snaking their way through my veins.

Oh God, what if Mark…

The thought is too horrible to contemplate, but as Cindi shoots me a look of genuine concern, I know that my worst fears have been realized, and without phone reception, I can’t access my bank account to conform. I swallow over the boulders in my throat. “I think my ex has cleaned me out. I…I don’t think I can pay for my room.”

The admission hangs heavy in the space between us, a damning truth that leaves me feeling exposed and vulnerable. I brace myself for the inevitable–the dismissive wave of the hand, the curt instruction to gather my things and be on my way.

But it never comes.

Instead, Cindi”s expression softens, her lips curving into a reassuring smile as she reaches across the counter to give my hand a gentle, comforting squeeze. ”Oh, honey, don”t you worry about a thing. We”ll get this sorted out, you”ll see. My brother, Mitch will help.”

Why would her brother help, and who even is her brother? Before I can protest, she”s already picked up an antiquated CB radio and is calling someone who answers almost immediately. I recognize the sultry masculine tones and a fresh wave of dread oozes through me.

Cindi’s brother is the sheriff.

The man whose very presence sets my soul and panties ablaze with desire and trepidation in equal measure.

“It’s okay. He doesn’t have to help,” I stammer.

“I didn’t tell him you needed help, he’d tan my hide until it shone and I like my hide the color it is, thank you very much,” Cindi says.

A smile teases her lips and I think I’m missing something huge when the sheriff’s muscular form appears in the doorframe. His gaze immediately finds mine and just like that a sob tears itself from my throat, raw and guttural, as every ounce of fear, uncertainty, and humiliation comes crashing down upon me in a tidal wave of emotion.

I don’t stop to wonder how he got here so fast. Had he even left? I curl in on myself, my arms wrapped protectively around my midsection in a feeble attempt to hold myself together, but the tears keep streaming down my cheeks, hot and stinging.

I want to stop. I need to stop. But I can’t.

The sheriff moves toward me, his movements fluid and purposeful. And then, to my utter surprise, he guides me to a couch in the foyer and sinks down beside me. His muscular frame dwarfs my own before he pulls me into the shelter of his embrace. I stiffen instinctively, every nerve ending firing off warning signals as his arms encircle me, drawing me against the solid wall of his chest but instead of the suffocating confinement I had expected, calm washes over me, a feeling of safety and security that I haven”t experienced in longer than I can remember.

”It”s all right. Let it out, Sarah. You”re safe here,” he murmurs, his deep baritone rumbling against my cheek as he tucks my head beneath his chin.

And just like that, the dam breaks, as though his words, his presence was permission enough. Sobs wrack my body as every ounce of pain, every shred of heartbreak and disappointment that I”ve been harboring comes pouring out. I cling to him like a lifeline, my fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt as I make a mess on him.

He doesn”t offer platitudes or empty reassurances, he simply rubs my back with his huge, capable hands and lets me cry. I don’t stop crying to wonder that this is exactly what I need him to do. Finally, when the sobs have subsided into the occasional hiccupping gasp, he tilts my chin up, his calloused thumb swiping away the lingering traces of moisture from my cheeks.

”Better?” he asks, his voice a low, soothing rumble.

I nod shakily, suddenly acutely aware of the intimacy of our position, of the way his solid frame engulfs me in a cocoon of warmth and safety. Heat floods my cheeks, and I make a move to extract myself from his embrace, but he tightens his hold, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that steals my breath away.

”I”m sorry. I didn”t mean to have such a pity party,” I mumble, swiping at the lingering tear tracks on my cheeks with the back of my hand.

Mitch”s brow furrows, and he shakes his head, his expression one of quiet reassurance. ”This isn”t a pity party, Sarah. Anything that causes this level of anguish with you is serious for me.”

His words, spoken with such conviction, such unwavering certainty, strike a chord deep within me. For once, I don”t feel the need to shrink back, to brush off my pain as insignificant or unworthy of acknowledgment. Instead, I find myself nodding, emboldened by the genuine concern that shines in his molten gaze.

”I”m just...not used to this,” I confess, my voice little more than a whisper.

Mitch regards me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a gentleness that belies his imposing stature, he reaches out and takes my hand in his, engulfing it in the warmth of his calloused palm. “Not used to what? Showing this side of yourself to people who care?”

“No one cares,” I whisper, my voice thick with a lifetime”s worth of loneliness and isolation. ”Not the foster parents, not the social workers...to them, I was just another whining foster kid, a burden to be shouldered until I aged out of the system.”

Oh God! Why did I tell him that? I don’t tellanyone about my past. I don’t cry in front of people. I don’t let myself get emotional. I don’t show anyone anything. Why does it all come out with him? I have no defenses. My walls are obliterated as though they were never there.

Shame floods through me. I stiffen, face hot and blood running cold. Wait for the sounds of pity. Mitch doesn”t flinch though, and why does he always do the unexpected? He doesn”t turn away or offer empty platitudes. He does the one thing no one else has done and understands. He tightens his grip on my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in a soothing caress.

”That changes now. You”re not alone anymore, Sarah. I”m here, and I”m not going anywhere. ” His words wash over me like a balm, soothing the ache that has been festering in my soul.

He’sabsolutely too good to be true and the biggest question of all strangles past my lips. “Why?”

He smiles, his expression one of quiet understanding and something else, something deeper that sends a frisson of awareness rippling through me. He rises to his feet and offers me his hand. ”You’ll see. For now we should head over to the station. I”ll need to access your account information, see if we can get to the bottom of this mess.”

I frown, placing my hand in his without hesitation even when he didn’t answer me. Not really but his touch grounds me in a way I can”t quite explain. He has my trust. Stupidly. Completely. Confusingly. We make our way toward the front entrance and I find myself drawing strength from his solid presence at my side.

As we step outside, the crisp mountain air fills my lungs, carrying with it the scents of pine and earthy moss. But there”s another scent mingled in, one that sets my pulse fluttering when he helps me into his police cruiser–the rich, heady aroma of sun-kissed skin and something distinctly masculine. It”s Mitch”s scent, I realize with a start, and it”s everywhere–clinging to the upholstery and permeating the air around us like an intoxicating musk.

I’ve never noticed scent before and now that I do, I take a deep breath and savor the air in my lungs.

”I like your car. It smells like you,” I murmur, unable to resist the urge to lean in and breathe deeply of that alluring fragrance. Holy hell, did I really say that?

A low chuckle rumbles from Mitch”s chest, and he shoots me a sidelong glance, his lips curved in a hint of a smile. ”I”m glad you approve,” he says, his tone rich with amusement.

The drive to the station is a blur, the picturesque scenery of Willowbrook passing by in a haze of vivid colors and quaint charm. But I barely register any of it, my focus entirely consumed by the man beside me, by the steady thrum of his presence that seems to ground me in a way I can”t quite articulate.

I’ve fallen into some sort of dream. An alternate reality, because I shouldn’t be attracted to this man. It takes me months to let people in and even then, I don’t let them in entirely, but this man has sunk past every defense I have in a brief hour.

We pull into the parking lot of a quaint, two-story building that exudes a sense of rustic charm. The sheriff”s station, I realize, taking in the whitewashed clapboard siding and the neatly tended flower boxes that line the front entrance.

As we make our way inside, I can”t help but marvel at the cozy interior, with its worn hardwood floors and the rich, earthy scent of cedar that permeates every nook and cranny. Everything about this town feels familiar.

As though I belong.

And I’ve never belonged anywhere.

Mitch”s deputy, a muscular man with a friendly smile, greets us in the lobby, his gaze flickering between us with a hint of curiosity. I recognize him as the man who followed the sheriff into the woods last night. I read his name badge: Zane Matthews.

“We’re going to be doing some research. Sarah’s bank account has unfortunately been emptied,” Mitch says.

I register the shock on Zane’s face as Mitch takes my hand, leads me down a side hallway and into a cozy office tucked away from the main bullpen.

As the door clicks shut behind us, Mitch draws a brown leather chair next to his behind his heavy oak desk that dominates the center of the room. ”Make yourself comfortable.”

I do as he asks, sinking onto the supple leather. He draws his own chair close. I breathe in air laced with sandalwood and a soft, calming haze settles over me with his closeness. With a few deft keystrokes, he pulls up my online banking portal when he asks for it.

”All right, Sarah,” he says, his gaze lifting to meet mine with an intensity that steals my breath away. ”Let”s get to the bottom of this.”

“Okay, Sheriff,” I say.

His face softens and I’m drawn into twin dark pools. “Please call me Mitch.”

I nod, his name sinking into me with another feeling of illogical rightness. As the information loads on the screen, I brace myself for the worst, steeling my resolve for the confirmation of my darkest fears. And then everything is confirmed when I look at those zeroes.

That.

Conniving.

Asshole.

All of my savings. Gone.

All of those overtime hours I worked to get ahead.

Vanished.

After all of the back-breaking, headache inducing, unending hours of extra work I took on to make sure he didn’t go without, Mark has left me penniless.

I’m completely and utterly destitute.