Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
B rock wasn’t sure what it was about this woman that got under his skin, but something did. Maybe it was the way she carried herself—like she was always expecting a fight, always waiting for someone to take a swing so she could swing harder. Maybe it was the way her green eyes flashed with defiance, even when she was barely holding herself together. Or maybe it was the fact that, despite everything people said about her, he had yet to see a single bit of it for himself.
He had expected sharp edges, a woman who wielded cruelty like a blade. But here, sitting across from him in the only restaurant in town, she just looked… tired. And wary. Like she was waiting for him to be just like the rest.
“So, what do you like doing for fun?” he asked, keeping his voice light.
Deb blinked, caught off guard. “Fun?”
She said it like it was some foreign concept, which had him narrowing his eyes. He figured as much. A woman like Deb, someone who carried the weight of her past on her shoulders, probably didn’t take much time for herself.
“Yeah, you know… fun,” he said, watching her closely. “Like reading, taking a walk, putt-putt golf.” He kept his face neutral, but a grin tugged at his lips.
Deb wrinkled her nose. “I hate putt-putt golf.”
The quickness of her answer made Brock chuckle. “That so?”
She nodded, and then, to his surprise, a tiny grin played on her lips. And damn if that didn’t make her even more beautiful.
“Probably because I suck at it,” she admitted with a shrug. “And it’s boring, just like real golf. You hit a ball and then walk after it. Makes no sense to me.”
Brock laughed, shaking his head. “You do realize that’s the entire game, right?”
“Exactly.” She pointed a finger at him, her grin widening. “Why would I want to do that for fun?”
He held up his hands in surrender. “Fair enough. No putt-putt golf. What about movies?”
Deb tilted her head, considering. “Not really movies, but I love the murder shows and true crime stuff. I listen to a lot of true crime podcasts.”
“That tracks,” Brock mused, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
“What does that mean?” Deb frowned, her eyes narrowing slightly.
“You don’t seem like a rom-com kind of girl,” Brock said innocently, but his grin suggested otherwise.
“Hey, it’s good to be educated if the need arises.” She replied, sounding as if she really meant that. Then her expression turned teasing. “What do you know about rom-com movies?”
Brock smirked. “Hey, I can appreciate a good romantic comedy.”
Deb raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Name one.”
“The Bride of Chucky ,” Brock answered without hesitation.
Deb’s eyes widened in disbelief before her head fell back in a burst of laughter, loud and unexpected. It was real—raw—and damn if it didn’t make something tighten in Brock’s chest.
“You’re serious?” she finally managed between chuckles, wiping at the corner of her eye.
“Yes, I am.” He leaned back, arms crossed, a satisfied grin playing on his lips.
Deb shook her head, still grinning. “That is not a rom-com.”
“Sure it is,” Brock countered, lifting a brow. “You got romance, commitment, a lot of passion, a little drama, Chucky is hilarious—hell, Tiffany literally dies and comes back as a doll to be with Chucky. If that’s not devotion, I don’t know what is.”
Deb laughed again, the sound softer this time. “That’s some twisted logic.”
“Hey, you asked for a romantic comedy, not a normal one.”
She smirked, leaning forward slightly. “Alright, wise guy, what’s your actual pick? No killer dolls, just a straight-up, traditional rom-com.”
Brock pretended to think about it, tapping a finger against the table. “Yeah, I got nothing.” His grinned. “If it doesn’t have blood and evil dolls coming to life, then I’m out.”
“That’s what I thought,” Deb said, shaking her head with a chuckle.
His brows lifted. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
She smirked. “I seriously can’t picture you cuddling up for a night of Rom-Coms.”
“Guess you got me on that one.” He leaned in, resting his arms on the table. “So, what else do you like to do other than learn the ways of getting away with murder?”
Deb chuckled, then held his gaze for a beat before answering. “I like to fish.”
Brock blinked, caught off guard. “Seriously?” Then, narrowing his eyes, he smirked. “But only if there’s someone there to bait your hook.”
“Nope.” She shook her head, her expression smug. “Bait my own, thank you very much.”
He chuckled, intrigued. “Taking some of your anger out on the worm?”
“Look at you, knowing me so well,” she quipped, flashing him an evil little smile.
“Poor worm.” Brock took a slow sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim of his cup.
She wasn’t just beautiful. That word didn’t quite fit. No, Deb was pretty in a way that snuck up on you, making you take a second look to ensure you’d seen her right the first time. She had a sharpness, an edge like she was daring the world to underestimate her. He could see a bit of resemblance between her and Emily, but without knowing they were sisters, he never would have guessed it.
Deb tilted her head, her grin softening just a little. “What?”
Brock realized he’d been staring. He set his cup down and shrugged. “Nothing. Just trying to picture you with a fishing pole.”
She laughed. “I don’t see why that’s so hard to believe.”
“It’s not. Just... unexpected.”
“People have layers, Brock,” she said, amusement flickering in her eyes.
“That they do,” he murmured, still watching her.
“So, what about you? Other than protecting your sister and nephew, what do you enjoy doing?” She questioned, also leaning back, seeming to finally relax in his presence, which the man and his wolf liked very much.
“I like building things,” Brock replied, not really having to think about it. “And fixing things.”
A sudden shadow passed across her face as her eyes shifted away. “Some things can’t be fixed.”
He knew exactly where her mind went, and the heart he had guarded so well opened just a little bit more for this woman.
“Things, Deb,” Brock said quietly. “Not people.” But that was a lie. As Alpha to his old Pack, he had to fix many people in different ways, but he kept that to himself.
Before either of them could say more, the restaurant door swung open, and a group of shifters strolled in, their voices carrying over the low hum of the diner. Their eyes flicked toward Brock and Deb before sliding away.
“Isn’t that Emily’s sister?” one of them muttered, just low enough to pretend he wasn’t trying to be overheard.
“Yeah,” another answered with a snort. “Heard she’s a real bitch. There are more women instead of dealing with that shit. That Linda chick is nice looking.”
Deb didn’t move, didn’t react. Brock, on the other hand, felt his muscles coil tight, his wolf pushing against his skin.
“Bitch or not, I’d bang her. She’s a good-looking piece of ass.” The one who was close to losing his life whistled low.
Laughter rippled through the group, their voices careless as it carried toward them.
“Better looking than her sister,” the first guy added, his tone suggestive.
“Best not let Hunter hear you talk about his Mate like that,” another one muttered, a note of caution creeping in. “Or her sister, for that matter.”
Brock was already halfway out of his seat before he even realized he was moving. His rage was instant, sharp, and white-hot. The only thing that stopped him from going straight for the bastard’s throat was the warm press of Deb’s hand on his arm.
“Don’t.” Her voice was quiet and steady, but something in her eyes—resignation, exhaustion—made him pause. “It’s not worth it. I’m leaving anyway.”
“The hell it isn’t,” he growled, his jaw tight as he shot the men a glare that promised this wasn’t over.
Deb shook her head, reaching for her bag. “Don’t make a scene. Please.”
“Deb,” Brock started, his voice rough with frustration.
She shook her head, pulled out some money, and set it on the table. “I’m just going to go.”
Brock exhaled sharply, snatching up the bills and pressing them back into her hand. “I’ve got this,” he said, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. He pulled out his wallet, dropping his own money on the table in its place.
For a second, she just stared at him, her expression unreadable. Then, finally, she exhaled and nodded. “Thanks.”
Without another word, Brock guided her toward the door, his presence solid beside her as they stepped out into the night. The door shut behind them, cutting off the laughter lingering inside.
Brock clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. “They shouldn’t have said that.”
Deb let out a short, humorless laugh. “Brock, you think that’s the worst thing people have said about me?”
“That’s not the point.”
She stopped walking, turning to face him under the dim glow of the streetlight. “Then what is the point?”
“The point is, they don’t get to talk to you like that.” His voice was low, rough. “I don’t care what you did in your past. You are still a lady and should be treated as such.”
Deb looked at him for a long moment. Finally, she sighed and shook her head. “Let it go, Brock.”
That was the last fucking thing he wanted to do, but he would...for now. She stopped once they reached the road, looking up at him.
“Thanks for dinner.” She smiled at him, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She looked embarrassed, and that pissed him off even more. “Next one...”
“Next one...what?” He pressed when she let her words trail off.
“Nothing. Just thanks.” She started to walk away but stopped when he began walking with her. “Ah, you don’t have to walk me home.”
“Yes. I do.” Brock said with a frown, and he knew what she had been about to say. “And yes, there will be a next time because I enjoy your company, and no, you will not be paying.”
“You’re stubborn, aren’t you?” She said, giving him a narrowed eye stare.
“Look at you, knowing me so well,” Brock threw her words back at her.
A genuine smile broke over her face. “Okay, fine.”
Brock nodded, satisfied, and they continued walking. The night air was warm, carrying the distant hum of crickets, and the faint scent of rain filled the air.
He didn’t know what it was about this complex woman that made him want to know her—to really know her—but he wasn’t going to ignore it.
And if he had to be stubborn to get past her walls? Then so be it.