Chapter 8 #2
I hauled her up, her legs locking around my waist. Her jeans just loose enough to give her room to squeeze me exactly right. The beast purred approval.
“Oh, God.” She gasped.
I had to stop this. She was too drunk to consent. And I wouldn’t do this until she understood what I was and that I knew who she really was.
“No.”
Her face. All beauty and confusion. “No?”
“No Juliet. We can’t do this. First of all, you’re in no condition.”
Her legs let go and slowly slid down my massive frame and hit the ground. If it were possible, I’d swear she was getting drunker by the minute.
“Fine. I get it.”
I took her face in my hands. Those espresso orbs filled with tears were killing me.
“No, I don’t think you do. But you will. Let me take you home.”
She stomped her foot and almost fell over. “I will not let you take me home!”
“Ok Juliet. If that’s how you want it.”
I bent down and threw her over my shoulder. The parade through the clubhouse was not my finest moment, but I had zero fucks to give. I snatched her purse from the coatroom, and we were gone.
By the time I buckled her into the truck’s passenger seat, she’d retreated into that glassy-eyed stillness rich girls perfect in finishing school.
The dashboard clock glowed 1:47 AM as we made the short trek to her apartment. She didn’t speak until I killed the engine.
“Don’t.” She slapped my hand, reaching for her seatbelt. “I’m not some broken—”
Her heel caught on the running board. I caught her centimeters from the asphalt, tequila fumes blooming between us. “Easy, hellcat.”
“Don’t touch me!” She writhed, elbow connecting with my solar plexus. “I don’t need your… your…”
The first dry heave doubled her over. I barely got out of the way before my boots were baptized in the remains of the barbecue she’d eaten earlier.
Bent over her on the driveway, I gathered her freshly colored hair while her body purged poison. Each convulsion mapped her vertebrae through thin cotton. My fault. Should’ve cut her off after the third tequila.
“M’fine,” she slurred, swatting weakly as I carried her inside. “Put me down, you… you…”
“Neanderthal?” I got her door unlocked and got her into the quaint apartment that I’d only recently remodeled. “Original.”
Her fist connected with my jaw. “Asshole.”
“Consistent.” I deposited her on the wedding ring quilt that adorned the wrought iron bed, ignoring how the moonlight caught the tears slipping past clenched lashes. “Boots off. Now.”
She fumbled with the laces. I turned to the bathroom faucet to grab water, but the whimper froze me mid-step.
“Damn… fucking…”
The switchblade snicked open before I registered reaching for it. Juliet recoiled, arms crossed over her chest.
“For the laces.” I knelt, slicing leather cords with surgical precision. Her breathing quickened when my fingers brushed an ankle bone sharper as I slid a boot from her foot.
The second boot thudded somewhere in the dark. She collapsed backward, one arm flung over her eyes. “Just go.”
I should’ve. Would’ve. If not for the quarter-moon marks peeking below her forearm.
When I returned with the glass of water, she’d twisted herself in the sheets—tank top rucked to reveal that damned scar.
“Drink.”
She turned her face away.
I gripped her chin, gentler than my wolf wanted. “Don’t make me pour it down your—”
Her teeth sank into my thumb.
“Christ, woman!” The glass shattered against the hardwoods. She lunged for the biggest shard.
We hit the floor in a tangle of limbs and ragged breaths. Her back arched under me, wildcat fury burning through the liquor haze. “Get… off!”
“Stop. Fighting. Juliet!” I pinned her wrists, horror dawning as her struggles grew more frantic. Not anger—terror.
Submission came sudden and violent. Her body went slack, face turning aside to expose the unmarked cheek. Waiting.
Ice flooded my veins. Slowly—hands raised—I rolled off. “Juliet…”
“Don’t call me that!” She scrambled backward until she was sitting against the wall. “He… when I wouldn’t…”
The confession hung in sour air. I ground my molars until enamel threatened to crack. “Never laid hands on a woman. Never will.”
Her laugh shredded what remained of my control. “No? What do you call tonight?”
“Tonight…” I stood, towering over her cowered form. “I was just trying to keep you from harming yourself and failing spectacularly.”
The bathroom light revealed what I’d expect. A neat basket of toothpaste and face wash and other toiletries sat on the counter. Another with rolled towels and washcloths expertly placed in a row sat next to the tub. I soaked a fluffy hand towel in cool water.
She didn’t resist when I cleaned the puke from her chin. Didn’t react when I pried the glass shard from her bloodied palm. Just stared through me with those, now I knew were Bettencourt eyes—amber flecks set in espresso.
“Bed,” I ordered when the clock ticked past three. She crawled atop the mess of covers without argument. Robotically, she lifted her arms as I peeled off the sweat-stained tank. I averted my eyes from the lace bralette. The hints of scars showed across her ribs. Failed.
Covering her felt like burying a Stradivarius in mud. I slipped an oversized tee over her head then helped her out of her jeans. I lingered to ensure she didn’t choke on her own vomit, counting each shallow breath. Her hair fanned across the pillowcase—a golden halo.
“Stay.” Her whisper stopped me as I stood.
I looked back at her. “Can’t.”
“Why?”
The truth perched on my tongue, feathered and lethal. Because if I touch you now, I’ll break my oath. Because you taste like forever, and I stopped believing in that twenty years ago.
“Sleep it off, Juliet.”
Her fingers caught my belt loop as I turned to leave. The contact burned through denim. “Not done talking.”
The mattress creaked. I didn’t look. Couldn’t. Not when her voice had gone liquid and sharp all at once—vodka sincerity laced with lemon truth.
“You smell like…like leather and…” Her nose wrinkled against the stench of bile still clinging to us both. “And desert and engine oil.”
“Perfume of the damned.” I tried prying her hand loose. Mistake. Her palm pressed flat against my stomach, branding through cotton.
She laughed—a wet, broken sound. “You’re warm. Harrison always felt…” Teeth sunk into chapped lips. A shudder ran through her slight frame. “Cold. Like money.”
My wolf thrashed against its chains. Kill him. Bury him. Make her ours.
Her touch wandered higher. “Bronc…”
Every cell screamed to cover her body with mine. To lick tequila off her collarbone. To bite until she understood ownership. Instead, I gripped her wrist almost hard enough to bruise. “Sleep.”
“Don’t want to.” She rolled onto her knees, sheets pooling at her waist. Moonlight through cracked blinds painted stripes across her delicate features. “Want you. Even if…” Her throat worked. “Even if it’s just tonight.”
The dresser mirror reflected our tableau—her trembling against the headboard wrought iron, me standing like a fucking monument to restraint. My knuckles whitened around her bones. “You’re pickled, Little Wolf.”
“So?” Defiance warped into something jagged. “Afraid I’ll regret it? Newsflash—every damn choice I’ve made since turning eighteen tastes like battery acid. At least this…” Her free hand traced my jaw. “… would burn less.”
I released her like scalding metal. Six steps to the door. Five more would take me through drywall and into blessed nothingness.
Her whisper hooked between my ribs. “Please. I need to know what it’s like…to be with someone I want.”
The floorboards groaned as I leaned in. Her breath hitched when I caged her face in my hands. Our foreheads touched—whiskey and tequila still lingered on her breath in the scant space between lips.
“Listen good.” My thumb brushed the racing pulse in her neck. “When I fuck you? You’ll be sober. Begging. Certain.”
Her lashes fluttered. “Arrogant ass.”
“Realist.” I forced myself backward, muscles screaming. “We got rules. Codes.”
“For mechanics?”
For wolves. “For men who don’t prey on wounded things.”
I reached the doorway as her laughter fractured, sharp edges cutting the dark. “Wounded, right.” The mattress springs wailed as she collapsed. “Run along then. Leave this broken thing where it is.”
The living room was neat as a pin. As I’d expect from the meticulous Juliet Bettencourt. Control what you can control. For her, it seemed wasn’t goddamn much. What in fuck’s name was I going to do with a 25-year-old girl? I laughed to myself. Claim her. That’s what.
At 4:17 AM, she whimpered.
At 5:02, another glass shattered.
By 6:45, dawn threatened sunny lace curtains. I lay staring at the ceiling, rehearsing truths that could make or break us.
Your real name’s Juliet.
I know some of what he did.
You’re one of us.
I left to get fresh coffee. I needed to be awake for the conversation to come.