Chapter 7 - Wilf
I had no idea she was so pretty under all that dirt, under all those clothes.
That’s the first thing that’s in my head when I wake up on the sofa, and it’s not particularly a welcome one before I’ve even had my first strong coffee.
I knew she was female and quite a young woman, but I hadn’t focused on her actual features because she’d been covered in dirt and wrapped in her coat.
I only got close enough to check if she was still breathing in the hut, and then by the time we got to the cabin, the only feature I’d really noticed under all the filth were her eyes—they were hard to miss.
But everything else was obscured under the weight of the state she was in.
Until she walked out last night after having had a shower.
I’d been at the counter with my back half turned, but I’d already heard she was heading toward me.
When I turned, my gaze went straight to those icy blue eyes.
They’re a hell of a feature, but she’s got plenty of them: her high cheekbones, the curve of her jawline, plump lips, and the flush to her cheeks.
Her hair was still wet, and her figure dwarfed in the spare clothes, but that might have been a blessing given how my wolf was reacting to her face; the last thing I needed to see was her body.
I focused on the job in hand, sorting out her injuries, gently pressing for information, and feeding her, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t notice how sweet she smelled, and when I woke up this morning, it could still scent her sweetness.
And I’m still determined to ignore it, so I get up and put the coffee pot on.
She’s still asleep; I checked a few times during the night—torn over whether she is a prisoner I’m guarding or a woman I’m protecting.
She asked if she could leave, and the answer was no, so I guess she is more of a prisoner than a guest at the moment.
However, that sits with me; it’s the truth.
So, I slept on the sofa with one eye open most of the night in case I woke up to a knife against my throat.
I have no doubt she’s still got plenty of fight left in her.
But every time I go in to check on her, she’s in exactly the same position, on her side with one hand under the pillow, the covers pulled up high, her breathing steady, and the knife still gripped in her other hand.
The color in her face seems to be coming back by morning, and she simply looks pale now rather than at death’s door.
Given she’s kept the food and water down, I’d say she’s going to live.
I’m itching to shift and head out for a run, but that’s not going to happen, so I check the security system and then hit the shower to try and wash away the entire of yesterday.
Honestly, I thought my wolf would be more angsty than he is; he feels surprisingly calm given the situation.
And given how strung out he’s been recently.
It’s her, I know it is. Perhaps just the mystery of her situation and the adrenaline of the kills.
I’m not going to read any more into it than that.
With the 8 am call looming, I towel off, dress, and grab an even stronger coffee before pulling Lara’s door closed and setting up on the kitchen island.
Connor picks up first, then Nick, with Luna in the background, followed by Thomas, and then Dina.
Bryan is out with Ethan somewhere in the trial and texts in with a brief update, which I read as the others all say good morning.
Luna tells us the witch, Anya, will be in town later today, and she’ll update us with news about the talismans asap.
Connor gives us a rundown of the rogue activity they found last night: two dead rogues, although they tried to capture, no one was in the mood to be taken alive.
He thinks there are a couple still loose on pack territory, but Bryan’s update seems solid, and Connor is heading out himself in a while with the next wave of betas.
“You got anything for us, Wilf?” Connor asks. He says it casually, but I know there’s nothing casual about this situation.
“Nothing in the rogues,” I say, “I ran the perimeter last night, didn’t see any.”
“Ok, you heading up the evening patrol, right?” Connor asks.
I take a breath. I wasn’t sure how I was going to come at this, but it seems I’m just going to run with it.
“I need a couple of days,” I say. “It’s personal. I’m fine, but just running something down before I bring it to the table. I’d appreciate some time to get it done.”
There’s a distinct silence on the line for a moment, long enough that it begins to sound like a question.
“Of course,” Connor says, and I hear Nick make a sound of approval. “A couple of days.”
“Thanks,” I say, hoping the meeting moves on.
“Do we need to be concerned?” Nick asks.
“No, not yet,” I say truthfully, “if it comes to anything, I’ll let you all know.”
“Ok,” Connor interjects, “but Wilf, if this thing you’re handling becomes bigger than one wolf can handle, you call your pack, right?”
“Right,” I say, trying to inject some sincerity into it.
The meeting continues but wraps up with the sound of everyone’s households coming to life in the background.
After hanging up, the cabin falls into silence around me, except that if I listen carefully, I can still hear the girls' steady breathing from the bedroom. I drain my coffee and sit with the silence, and I consider what I’ve just done, and why.
I didn’t lie to my alpha and head of security, but I did deliberately leave out some pretty major information.
Not a lie, but a misdirection in every sense of the word.
I’ve bought myself a couple of days—maybe it’s more for her benefit, to regain strength.
Maybe it’s better for the pack because I can try to figure out what this weirdness with her voice is about; maybe it’s better for the pack because I don’t want to bring trouble to their door.
I know it’s for my wolf’s benefit because he didn’t want the pack coming up here and taking over. Taking over talking to the girl, taking over figuring out who she is. I’m not supposed to care about that shit. That’s not how packs work when you’re a beta.
I stare at my empty coffee, letting that settle.
Knowing she’ll need to be well-rested to be up to answering any of my questions, and making my decision to hole up here worth it, I leave her to sleep and begin taking an inventory of the lodge.
It was left in good shape after the summer season, and I’m relieved to find the dry stores well stocked.
I pull out enough to last two or three days and make a simple loaf of bread while running through some basic security checks in case the rogues dodge the patrols and head this way.
It’s while I’m cooking some more soup that I hear her moving around.
With the bread ready, I suspect it’s the smell that’s woken her up if her reaction to seeing food last night is anything to go by.
I hear the bedroom door open and turn to say hello before pausing.
She’s still in the comically oversized sweats, but now she’s wearing a t-shirt that is so big she’s had to tie a knot in it.
She’s probably just being practical, but the result only highlights what must be a very slender waist and gives a hint of her curves. I shake the thought off immediately.
“Morning,” I offer, “or rather, afternoon. There’s coffee in the pot, soup, and bread almost ready if you’re hungry.”
“Please, yeah,” she says, voice rough with sleep. She heads to the pot and pours herself a coffee before topping mine up. I made it pretty strong, but she doesn’t seem to mind. I guess nearly starving in the forest makes a person less fussy because my coffee isn’t usually popular.
She takes the same seat at the table as she did last night and lowers herself carefully, with the kind of care a person uses when they know exactly what is going to hurt and where. I know for a fact that her knife will still be in her pocket.
I serve up the lunch and place hers in front of her before taking my own seat.
"Thanks," she says. The word is careful, but it's there.
"How's the ankle?" I ask
"Worse. But I think that's normal." She admits.
"It is normal, I think, for humans; you take longer to heal,” I confirm, but she doesn’t reply to that, just holds my gaze for a moment.
We fall into silence as we eat lunch, and I try to give her some space, but I can’t help noticing what she’s doing.
She’s scanning. First, the door and security panel, then the window over the sink, and the window on the far wall.
Then the back door with the latch on the inside.
Then she scans the kitchen, the knife block I’ve left out on the counter, the poker for the stove.
I notice how she shifts slightly, tilting her chin; she’s listening.
I’ve watched plenty of people in all kinds of situations, especially in the patrols, especially amongst the best. She watches this room exactly like I would—she’s weighing up options and countermeasures.
"You're trained," I say, into the bowl of stock I'm stirring.
She doesn't reply for a minute, and I let it sit. After a moment, she takes a long sip of the coffee and replies, flatly, without looking up, "I've had to be."
"By who?" I ask.
"My father." She finally admits.
"He’s hard on you about it. I can tell, or you wouldn’t be this good." I smile.
"He's dead." She says it with no inflection at all. "But yes. He was."
I keep stirring.
"What did he do? Who was he?" I ask after a minute.
"He ran our small farm and the human network out here. The huts. He set them over near where we live, he stocked them, and he taught a small handful of people how to use them. He grew up watching shifters hurt humans. He raised me to know how to live in a world where I needed to protect myself; a lot of good that’s done recently.
" She pauses. "He was killed by shifters near our cabin last year. "
The spoon in my hand stops moving.