Wolf Fated

Chapter Nine

Sarah

The moment Mitch’s lips crash against mine, my world tilts on its axis. His arms engulf me, drawing me flush against the hard planes of his body, and I melt into his embrace, surrendering to the raw need that blazes through me.

Holy cow, is the only coherent thought that manages to pierce through the haze of desire. I’ve never been kissed like this before, with such unbridled passion, such reverence and possession all rolled into one. It’s heady, intoxicating, and I find myself responding in kind, my lips parting beneath the insistent glide of his tongue as a needy whimper escapes the back of my throat.

It feels so right, so perfect, as if every atom in my being has been yearning for this moment without my conscious knowledge. His scent, that rich, earthy musk surrounds me, enveloping me in a cocoon of pure, unadulterated desire.

And then, just as I’m spiraling deeper into the abyss of sensation, he utters a single word against the swell of my lips–a word that shatters the spell and sends reality crashing back down upon me like a tidal wave.

“Mate.”

The whispered endearment is enough to douse the heat licking at my senses. My eyes fly open, and I find myself staring into the molten depths of his gaze, so filled with longing and promise that it steals the breath from my lungs.

Mate? Did he really just…

Panic flares within me, hot and insistent, as the implications of that single word sink in. I’ve only just met this man, this ruggedly handsome sheriff who has awoken an untamed part of me. How can he possibly be speaking of mates when I can scarcely catch my breath in his presence?

And yet, even as my mind races, a tiny voice whispers from the depths of my soul, a voice that speaks of destiny and fated connections that transcend the boundaries of logic and reason.

I don’t know what that voice is, or where it’s come from.

Before I can dwell on it further, I’m extracting myself from Mitch’s embrace, putting much-needed distance between us as I struggle to regain my bearings.

“This is a mistake. I’m sorry, but kissing you...it was a bad idea,” I blurt out, the words tumbling from my lips before I have the chance to stop them.

To his credit, Mitch doesn’t argue or try to convince me otherwise. He simply nods, his expression inscrutable as he regards me with those searing eyes that see right through me.

No one has looked at me like that before.

Not even on the odd time I’d let something personal slip. And even then, after a startled silence, it would be ignored. Conversation would flow to something else less pitiful.

But not Mitch. I can’t shake the feeling he can see into my soul and come away unflinching.

I’m flayed. Bared. But he makes no remark. Simply sees and does the very opposite of what I expect.

“Noted,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly in a way that sends a shiver of awareness rippling down my spine. “I would like to say I enjoyed it very much and don’t think it was a mistake. That being said, I’d still like to get you breakfast before I show you around town. And Sally will still also want to know you made it through the night in one piece.”

I blink, caught off guard by the sudden change in subject, but I don’t protest as he ushers me to the door, his large hand resting at the small of my back in a gesture that is equal parts comforting and possessive.

If any other man touched me like that, I would hate it and move away. But with Mitch…I…don’t hate it.

As we make our way to his police cruiser, I notice the impressive bulge tenting the front of his uniform pants, a testament to his arousal. That can’t be comfortable. I quickly avert my gaze, before I offer to do something about it because if I’m honest with myself, my palms are itching with the need to touch.

Bad, Sarah. Bad.

The drive to Sally’s diner is a blur, the quaint scenery of Willowbrook passing by in a kaleidoscope of colors and textures. I’m hyper-aware of Mitch’s presence beside me, of the way his scent permeates the very air around us. How I’m even noticing his scent. I have to resist the urge to squirm in my seat, to alleviate the ache that has taken root deep between my thighs.

As we pull into the diner’s parking lot, I can’t help but observe the curious glances from passersby, their gazes lingering on the sight of me in the passenger seat of the sheriff’s cruiser. A flush of self-consciousness washes over me. Everyone seems to know who I am. I guess anyone new in a small country town would stand out. Especially one being driven around in a police cruiser.

Mitch doesn’t seem to notice or care about the scrutiny. With a gentleness that belies his imposing stature, he helps me from the vehicle, his palm warm and reassuring against the small of my back.

As we approach the diner’s entrance, the haunting sound of wolves howling drifts through the crisp mountain air. I stop when I stand to listen. “Wolves?” I murmur, glancing toward the treeline with a mixture of trepidation and curiosity.

Mitch nods, his expression unreadable. “There’s a sizable population in these forests. But you needn’t worry. Just steer clear of the woods, and you’ll be perfectly safe.”

I file away the warning for future reference as he ushers me through the diner’s entrance and into the warm, welcoming embrace of Sally’s establishment.

The moment we step inside, Sally’s warm smile envelops us, her expression one of genuine delight as she takes in the sight of us together.

“Well, well,” she croons, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “I see you have wasted no time keeping her in your sights, Sheriff.”

There’s an undercurrent of teasing in her tone, a subtle nudge that implies a deeper meaning lurking beneath the surface. And as Mitch chuckles in response, shooting her a wry grin, I think I’m missing out on some private joke, some unspoken understanding that everyone seems privy to but me.

Except for one thing–the way Mitch looked at me, the naked longing that had burned in those molten depths as he uttered that single, earth-shattering word.

Mate.

The memory sends a shiver of awareness down my spine, and I quickly push it aside, determined not to dwell on the implications of something that could never be more than a fleeting fancy.

As Sally whisks us to a cozy booth near the back of the diner, I find myself relaxing into the familiar surroundings as though I’m as comfortable here as one of the locals. Mitch slides into the seat across from me, his large body taking up most of the bench.

“Did you always want to be a reporter?” he asks, his voice low and resonant in a way that sends a shiver of awareness racing down my spine.

I blink, caught off guard, but his gaze blooms with open curiosity. He really wants to know. “Ever since I was a little girl.” And then words tumble from my lips and I can’t keep them in the same way I couldn’t stop them slipping through before. I want to tell him. Want him to know about myself. “I’ve always loved to write, to capture the world around me and distill it into words on a page. Being a reporter just seemed like the natural progression, a way to marry my passion with a steady paycheck.”

Mitch listens intently, his expression one of rapt attention as I regale him with the details of my career aspirations, my dreams of one day penning a bestselling novel.

“But that’s still a ways off,” I admit with a rueful chuckle. “It’s not easy to make a living as a writer, at least not at first. That’s why I chose journalism–it allowed me to hone my craft while still earning a decent wage.”

As the words leave my lips, I’m struck by a sudden pang of wistfulness, a longing for the life I had once envisioned for myself. Mark and I had a plan. I would work while he studied and once he had his degree and started to work, I would cut down to part time work and begin my novel. That dream has gone up in flames.

“I would love to read a book you wrote,” Mitch says.

My head snaps up. I’d often chatted to Mark about my ideas, but he never really responded about anything concrete. He’d smile, but his eyes would always have a far-away look in them and I knew he wasn’t really interested so I never even told him what my story would be about.

I put that down to him not really understanding the urge to write. Not many people do. The thought of it sounds good, but you have to have gumption to pen word after word, day after day. Mark certainly never looked at me with the same eagerness spread across Mitch’s face. “You would?”

His brows rise, as though he finds my surprise a surprise to him. “Of course! I’d probably pester to read it as soon as you got a new chapter down. I mean, I know you’d want to polish it before you handed anything over, but I’d like to think we could talk things through if you got stuck on any plot points.”

I search his face for any trace of a lie, but find nothing but openness. He’s serious. He’s really serious. I’m both flattered. And confused. “You mean that.”

“Of course I do. I think it’s wonderful anyone could write a book. It’s amazing!” His expression slides into one of quiet concern. “But, you don’t think so.”

I shrug. “I never really thought about it that way. It’s just something I’ve always wanted to do, I guess.”

“What made you decide to pursue writing in the first place?” he prompts, his tone gentle yet laced with a genuine curiosity that catches me off guard.

I hesitate, my gaze dropping to the worn laminate as I wrestle with the weight of the memories that threaten to overwhelm me.

I don’t talk about my childhood.

Ever.

Even to Mark, but when I lift my chin and meet Mitch’s gaze I’m not scared to answer his question. I don’t understand why when the words usually burn like bile up my throat. Now though…now when that strange feeling of wanting to tell him everything switches on and I….I want to share. It’s important he knows.

“I didn’t have the typical upbringing. No parents, no family support...just a string of foster homes and social workers who saw me as nothing more than a burden to be shuffled from one place to the next.” The admission hangs heavy in the space between us, laden with a lifetime of loneliness and isolation that still manages to sting, even after all these years.

But Mitch doesn’t flinch, doesn’t offer empty platitudes or hollow reassurances. Instead, he simply nods, his expression one of quiet understanding and acceptance.

I swallow hard and continue. “I started writing when I was little. It became my escape. And when I got older, when I realized that I could turn that passion into a career...well, it just seemed like the natural path to take.”

As the words trail off, I find myself searching Mitch’s gaze, seeking a hint of judgment or pity. What I find there is neither of those things. There’s an understanding that reaches into the very depths of my soul.

I realize that for the first time in longer than I can remember, I’ve allowed someone to see the real me–the broken, battered parts I’ve kept carefully hidden from the world. Instead of turning away in disgust or dismissing me, Mitch has met me head-on, his presence a steady anchor in the midst of the storm that has been raging within me for far too long.

“I don’t want to burden you,” I say.

A small huff of air leaves his full lips. “You’re no burden, Sarah.”

I stare at him and do nothing but believe him. “How can…why do I…want…to tell you these things?”

“I’m not just hearing your words, Sarah. I’m feeling them, down to the very core of my being,” he murmurs, his voice a low, resonant rumble.

Mitch’s words ease the ache that’s always there deep down inside. And from that ache, the voice of reason that speaks of self-preservation and the bitter lessons learned from past heartaches whispers in my head.

And that voice is right.

I can’t let myself get swept away, not again. Not when the wounds from Mark’s betrayal are still so fresh. With a monumental effort, I remove my hand that found its way somehow under his.

Mitch doesn’t push, doesn’t try to force his way past the barriers I’ve thrown up. He simply nods, a small, understanding smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“It’s time I showed you around town. Get you oriented before the festivities start up,” he says, his tone easy and relaxed, as if he can sense my need for space.

I nod, grateful for the opportunity to regain my bearings and put some much-needed distance between us. As much as I’m drawn to this man, this steadfast, unwavering force of nature, I can’t afford to let my guard down completely.

Because if I do, I might be swallowed whole and I don’t know if that’s the right thing for either of us.