Chapter Twenty-three
KARL
Karl woke to a relentless drumbeat of heat and pain from his leg, but his brain felt clearer. Not clear, but at least he was no longer fighting for every thought. They might be able to plan a way out of this, at last.
He rolled his head on the pillow, looking for Leon, and found him curled in the too-small chair again.
One ankle was hooked over his knee, and he held a book in the low light like he might absorb its contents through sheer force of will.
His brow was furrowed in concentration, his hair falling over his shoulder, restored to its usual gleaming smoothness.
Karl watched him, and something warm filled his chest, too soft to name and too big to dismiss. But he had to ignore it, had to find a way to get rid of it, to be himself again. They weren’t mates.
Even if they had been, it could never work.
Leon was a cat. A beautiful, smug, infuriating peacock in combat boots.
Everything in Karl’s world was built on control and discipline, and Leon was chaos wrapped in silk.
Wanting him was like wanting the kind of fire that would burn him up.
Not that Karl wanted him. He absolutely didn’t.
He hadn’t thought even once about how it had been under that tarp in the pouring rain and the cold, with Leon writhing sinuously under him, practically purring in satisfaction.
Didn’t matter what his wolf had thought—oh. That was why he had that softness, that longing each time he looked at Leon. It was his wolf, who hadn’t yet understood that Leon had been lying to provide a cover story, nothing more.
He wasn’t sure now whether it was his wolf or he who’d reacted when Leon’s voice, low and certain, had breathed the words in his ear. For reasons he didn’t understand, he hadn’t fought the declaration. He’d accepted it, letting it settle over him like a warm blanket on a cold night.
He hadn’t thought, that can’t be true. He’d thought, finally. It had felt like finding home.
It had been no more than a calculated move to gain tactical advantage. And that was fine. He didn’t want a mate. He’d built a life that didn’t require one, filling his days with the rhythm of work, with things that mattered.
But now, lying here, that felt somehow empty. The life that had sustained him felt like it wasn’t enough. Which was ridiculous. Must be the drugs. Or the shock of Leon still being here, still watching over him, when anyone sensible would have run.
He moved slightly, drawing a sharp breath as fire lanced down his leg. The sound made Leon look up, and for a moment his face lit with a smile before he pushed it back, carefully neutral again.
“Hey, you’re awake.”
Karl nodded. “Yeah.”
Leon set the book down and stood. “Need anything? Water? Food? Style tips?”
“Water,” Karl said, ignoring the rest. Leon smirked anyway, and reached for the mug, steadying it with careful hands while Karl drank.
He pushed the empty mug back at Leon with a hand that trembled.
“You have to stop them giving me those painkillers,” he said, voice gravelly. “I can’t think properly.”
He slid his hand under the pillow before Leon got a chance to voice his objection—because he’d somehow learned to read Leon, and he knew that tilt of his chin signaled an argument about to erupt—and closed his fingers around two small white pills.
He held them out to Leon. “Take them and bury them somewhere a pup can’t dig them up, will you? ”
Leon eyed them cautiously, making no move to take them. “Why do they look like reconstituted chalk that someone sat on?”
“Because I had to keep them in my mouth till Ruth wasn’t looking,” Karl said. “Get rid of them.”
The reluctance with which Leon reached out his hand was matched only by the revulsion on his face as Karl put the misshapen tablets in his palm.
“I thought regurgitating processed meat was the low point of spending time with you,” he said, as he slid the tablets into the pocket of his borrowed sweats, fastidiously wiping his hand on them afterward. “Should’ve known, I suppose. Wolves.”
But when he looked at Karl, his eyes were warm and worried, nothing like his disdainful drawl. “There’s food if you want it.”
Karl wasn’t sure he’d ever felt less like eating, but he knew he had to fuel his healing to make it out of here.
“It’s not exactly haute cuisine, but it’s just about edible,” Leon said as he helped Karl sit up, propped by lumpy pillows.
“I’d probably give them one star on Yelp rather than zero—can you even give zero stars?
I must’ve tried that before, but I can’t remember.
But honestly? The one star would be for the artisanal wooden bowl rather than what’s in it. ”
Leon didn’t hesitate to let his opinion be known, but he didn’t usually chatter in a way that reminded Karl of Tristan’s stream of consciousness.
Maybe he’d seen Karl struggling to keep his eyes open as black spots danced before them and was giving him space to recover from the exertion of changing position in the bed.
Fuck, he was weak. And he resented that more than anything.
He was never helpless. He refused to be.
“Give it to me,” he said, stretching out a hand toward the bowl Leon had picked up off the table.
Their fingers brushed, and something jolted through him—heat flaring, together with something that felt like connection, like longing. He didn’t want it. Didn’t want to want it.
And they were still touching, because Leon hadn’t let go. “Just give me the damn food.”
“My Grandpa would have a word or two to say about the manners of wolves,” Leon said, relinquishing the bowl.
He sat once more in the chair, fingers combing briefly through his hair.
For comfort? Reassurance? Karl couldn’t quite tell.
Maybe it was simply habit, because Leon preened as if the world would end if he didn’t look perfect at all times.
Annoying, sure, yet Karl’s fingers still itched to run through that fall of hair.
Damn those drugs—the sooner they were out of his system, the sooner he could stop thinking about what Leon’s hair had felt like between his fingers.
“Has anything changed while I was out?” he asked, in between mouthfuls of cold meat stew.
“Eat first,” Leon said. His voice was quieter, but the note of warning in it kicked Karl’s heart rate up. Leon flicked his eyes meaningfully toward the wall of the one-room building they were in. “We’ll talk when you’ve finished.”
Karl nodded, and redoubled his efforts to finish his meal. But nerves were tugging in his stomach, making the stew settle uneasily. He didn’t know the situation, and that sat wrong with him.
Bowl empty, he attempted to place it on the floor by the bed, and instantly stilled and hissed at the pain in his leg. His ribs weren’t exactly happy at him moving around either.
Leon snatched the bowl out of his loosened hand. “Is it really too much for you just to lie there and get better?” he demanded.
He put the bowl back on the table with the suspicion of a slam before swinging back to look at Karl. “You need anything else?”
“Just to know what’s going on,” Karl said, and Leon’s irritation instantly disappeared.
He came back to his chair, dragged it closer to the bed and leaned forward, his hair falling to form a silken screen between them and the rest of the room.
The scent of him—sweet, warm, familiar—hit Karl like a punch to the gut.
His hand began to reach toward Leon without his permission, before he realized what he was doing and controlled it. What the hell was wrong with him?
He clenched his fingers in the blanket instead. He didn’t need gentleness. Didn’t need Leon.
“I overheard a conversation when I was outside one of these buildings,” Leon said softly, keeping his voice low. “They’re definitely not soundproof.”
Karl nodded to show he understood. Didn’t want to say anything because this was intensely distracting, having Leon’s face, cheekbones and all, so close and intimate. He breathed in Leon’s scent, and something in him, quiet and raw, still ached to reach for him. Just for a second.
He didn’t. He wouldn’t fall for someone who made him laugh one minute and furious the next. He couldn’t be falling for a cat. That was just the painkillers talking.
It had to be.