Chapter Ten
Matt
We deal with three back-to-back calls right as my shift starts. Nothing serious. A cat in a tree, which would delight Oliver, a kitchen fire, and a man stuck on a roof.
When I’m not running around saving the day, I’m distracted by the thoughts of how good Oliver's body felt pressed against mine. How needily he grinded against my thigh, chasing his release. How hungrily he kissed me back.
I want to consume him. To possess him. To tie him to myself. To fuck him, again and again, until all he can do is shout my name.
And that's exactly why I need to stay away. Oliver is kind, beautiful, precious, and funny. He deserves to be loved, to be treated delicately. He deserves… everything.
He does not belong in my dark world full of deception, hatred, danger, and loss. I will make sure he stays away.
I spend the night tossing and turning. I'm almost relieved when the alarm blares around midnight at the station.
A proposal that went very horribly wrong is the perfect escape for my grim mood.
As soon as my shift ends, I drive to Nick's house. He comes out looking worse for wear.
“Just got home,” he explains. “Come on, dude, can’t we go later?” he complains as he climbs inside the car and puts on the seatbelt. He’s too invested in his job to really delay work, or “potential adventure,” as he likes to call it.
I just grunt, already done with the day.
When we’re back on the road, he looks at me, concerned. “So, talk,” he waves his hand out dramatically, like he’s giving me center stage.
“About what?” I focus all my attention on the road. The streets are trying hard to bring in the Christmas spirit, but no amount of cinnamon scent, frosting on windows, and fake snow can help LA from looking like it’s borrowing the festivities.
Nick knows me too well to let me get away with it. “Why are we on this damn excursion at the ass-crack of dawn when we could’ve gone in the evening? And why do you look like you’re driving us to our early demise?”
“It's literally nine a.m.” I ease up on the gas.
“It's still dawn for me because I was working until morning,” he says confidently.
“What kind of stupid ass logic is that?”
“Matt, you seriously look like you’re being haunted by a medieval ghost,” he comments, ignoring me.
“Why a medieval ghost?”
“I think they’d just be more annoying, you know?” he says.
I nod. “The fact that I see logic in that tells me why it’s good for families to drift apart after a certain point.”
Nick laughs. “You wouldn’t last a day without me. Anyway, why the grim mood? I thought all that time with your human, sorry, Oliver, would have you skipping everywhere.”
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” I mumble.
“Is it because Sloan's bringing Jell-O shots to the Christmas party?”
That gets me out of my haze. “She's what?”
“Maybe I can drop the entire tray by mistake? Oops!”
I snort despite myself. To be fair, a six-foot-two guy built of muscles pulling out a baby voice can make anyone crack.
“Okay, why do you want to be so involved in the case?” he asks, his voice sobering.
“It’s just…this shouldn't have lasted this long. Oliver is still nosing around, trying to understand what he saw that night. I just don’t like the idea that he was anywhere close to something this dangerous,” I admit. Saying the words out loud makes my fear more real.
“Do you think he suspects anything?”
“Not anything close to the truth yet. But I’m a little worried because he writes for that stupid werewolf show.”
“The Pack? He works for The Pack?” Nick laughs out loud.
I glare at him.
“Dude, if he works for The Pack, he’s never going to believe in us, even if you go full wolf right in front of him. That was the reason they decided to make it so accurate. People think it's so cringe it can't possibly be true.”
“I know, but he has so many questions,” I complain.
“His interest will die down. You just need to distract him. Although you know there are other ways to distract people than organizing a party on Christmas, right?” he teases.
“I don't know what you're implying.” I focus ahead. Road safety and all.
“Yeah, yeah.” He lets me have it.
When I park in front of the shop, we sit outside for a few seconds assessing the place. When I look at Nick, his eyes are closed, his face focused.
“Fuck, I can’t get anything over the horrible smell of herbs, flowers, and incense. Can you?” He turns to me hopefully.
My senses are already filled with the strong scent of beeswax, sage, and peppermint. I shake my head.
“Fuck, I hate these shops. I can’t even tell how many people are inside,” he huffs.
“We can go inside,” I suggest.
Nick shakes his head. “They’ll mark us right away. We want Dalton to believe it’s safe to come here. I’ll ask Meena to set up a twenty-four-seven stakeout here.”
We still decide to walk around a bit in case we get something, but the smells are almost suffocatingly loud. We see a couple, both clearly werewolves, behind the counter, but that’s all we can gather without raising attention.
“You think they’re hiding something under all that smell?” Nick asks when we’re walking back, frustrated by the assault on our senses.
“Oh, I’m sure they are. The only question is how dangerous it is.”
Nick nods.
“Did you have breakfast?” he asks once we’re back on the road.
“No, the last call went late.”
“Good. I'm starving. Let's go to that bakery you say you don't like, but you love,” he suggests, smiling already.
Sometimes I envied how quickly Nick could change his mood. Dark clouds still hover over me. “Alright,” I agree anyway. Who the hell says no to baked goods? Mood be damned.
We go all out and order too much, which quickly turns out to be too little. What can I say? We need a lot of calories.
“So, tell me more about your little human,” Nick says, inhaling his croissants. He got all the flavors they had.
“He has a name, you know.”
“Oh yeah, what was it again? I didn't pay attention to the five thousand times you mentioned it.”
I roll my eyes. “You make it sound like I’m constantly composing sonnets about Oliver.”
“Ooooh, I love that picture. What would Matt Hale look like composing poems for his beloved?”
I kick him under the table.
“Ouch.” He exaggeratedly rubs his legs. “Those are the money makers, dude.”
I shake my head.
“Why do you want to get away from Oliver so bad?” he asks, going straight for the jugular. This is why you don't have friends who’ve known you since you were a kid. It's a pain to hide anything from them.
“Because he deserves better,” I admit honestly.
“Better than you?” he asks, preparing for a lecture. He loves me too much to let shit like that slide.
“Better than the life he would have with me,” I correct.
“Matt, you know humans and werewolves can be happy together,” he insists.
“Can they? Because all I see is people trying to adjust to a life they were thrown into without their permission. Unable to fit in anywhere.”
Nick shakes his head. “That's because you only see one side of it. Everyone adjusts in relationships. People do a lot of things for love. Gladly,” he says, sagely.
“Well, I’ll make sure it doesn't get to that.”
This time, he rolls his eyes. “Just don't use this as an excuse. You deserve to be happy. You know that, right?”
I smile. “I’m happy. I have you guys.”
Nick is the literal definition of a golden retriever and a guard dog rolled in one. The guy is just too optimistic for his own good. We've had this argument so many times that I can recite all his statements by heart.
“Not everyone is like your foster parents,” he says.
My hand freezes mid-bite. We don’t mention them. And he’s usually so good at following that rule, too.
“I don’t want to talk about them,” I declare.
Nick’s eyes bore into mine, challenging. “Well, you’re clearly still letting them tell you what you can and can’t do,” he says. “I know they made you think you’re not great, that you’re not enough. But Matt, you are. You’re that and so much more.”
I feel a sting in my eyes, and I swallow hard. “They weren’t bad people, Nick,” I finally say when I’m sure my voice won’t shake. “They took care of me. They loved me. At one point, we were talking about adoption.” My breathing gets heavier. “They were not bad people.”
Nick nods but doesn’t let it go. “I know. But they weren't good people either. You don't behave the way they did with a child. Would you ever do that to a twelve-year-old?”
“Of course not. But I can't speak for them. Their experience was real. Their life became difficult after the Bureau stormed into it,” I defend.
“Well, it didn't have to. They still had everything.”
“You don't get it. They had no choice.” I breathe out, my eyes closing. “I can't have Oliver hate me,” I whisper.
But Nick hears me. Of course, he does. I feel numb, like my emotions just decided to give up on me all at once. Nick looks at me for a few seconds, like he’s thinking of a good argument. But he must see the resistance on my face because he lets it go.
“So, what can I expect at this Christmas thing?” he asks after a few minutes, going back to eating.
A smile stretches across my face. “Oliver has a list of recipes he's going to try.”
“Should I be worried?” he asks, genuinely concerned.
“He's a great cook.”
“Of course, he is. Oliver is perfect,” he swoons.
I roll my eyes.
On the way back to Nick’s place, we call Marcus to check if he has an update on the bodies.
“You know I’ve got a whole other job, too?” Marcus says as soon as he picks up.
“Well, humans are involved in this one, so this is your only job right now,” I argue.
“Yeah, yeah. So, you were right. The chemicals in the bodies match the two from your apartment building. There is definitely something big at play here. I’m still figuring out what these drugs do, but the cocktail seems to be the same. Also, they have injuries beneath their fingernails, too.”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.” Nick pinches his nose.
“I know. This is bad, guys. And now the humans are involved,” Marcus says, worried.
“The protocol stays. Share everything with everyone unless it outrightly reveals anything.” Nick tiredly recites.
“Yeah, and I’ll update you guys on the chemicals soon," Marcus responds before disconnecting the call.
“This isn’t going to be easy, is it?” I ask.
Nick sighs hard before I even finish my sentence.
I drop him off and drive to my apartment.
When I walk back into the building, I climb the steps slowly, convincing myself to go straight back to my place.
By the fifth floor, I know it’s a lost battle. When I stand between my and Oliver's door, my feet take me to the left, and I’m knocking.
He opens a few seconds later, looking all soft and groggy like he just woke up. His eyes, less red and tired than the last time I saw him, go wide the second he spots me. A smile blooms on his face.
“Hi,” he says, a little uncertain.
“I brought croissants.” I pull out a bag from behind me. Nick had stared at me the entire time I ordered them, all-knowing.
His smile widens. “Is it chocolate?”
“Of course, it’s chocolate. What do you take me for, Bennett?”
He lets me in, and I follow easily despite my brain warning me to run far, far away.