Chapter 8 Wen
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Wen
I managed to ignore the werewolf in my apartment for three whole days.
Sunday night, after my friends left, I’d walked past him lying on the couch with that damned book open in front of him and practically sprinted to my bedroom.
Slammed the door. Locked it. Pretended I couldn’t hear him turning pages and that I wasn’t dying of curiosity about what he thought of chapter seventeen.
Monday morning, I emerged from my room at dawn to find him still asleep on the couch.
Turned out the big bad alpha wolf was not a morning person.
He’d grunted when I walked past, made a sound that was half growl and half complaint, and dragged himself to the bathroom with all the enthusiasm of a teenager on a school day.
It was hilarious. This powerful, dangerous predator who’d almost murdered a man for insulting me was absolutely miserable before 11 AM.
I’d made coffee. Extra strong. Slid a cup across the counter to him when he finally emerged, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes still half-closed.
He’d grunted what might have been thanks and downed the entire cup in three gulps.
“Not a morning person?” I’d asked.
Another grunt.
“Need more coffee?”
A nod.
I’d poured him another cup, biting back a smile. Who knew werewolf kings were useless before caffeine?
Tuesday and Wednesday followed the same pattern. We ate breakfast in relative silence. Went downstairs to work. I avoided eye contact. It was fine. Totally fine. I was handling this maturely.
But the bookstore? It was thriving.
Monday morning, a girl had walked in and stopped dead in the doorway. Just stared at the renovations with her mouth open.
“Oh my god,” she’d breathed. “Woods & Pages got a makeover?”
“We did some updates,” I’d said, trying to sound casual instead of desperately hopeful.
“This is amazing! Do you have any romantic comedies? Like, enemies to lovers?”
A week ago, I would’ve told her we didn’t carry much contemporary romance. Now, with my new inventory? “I have an entire section. Let me show you.”
She’d squealed. Actually squealed. Bought three books. Sat down in the reading nook to start one immediately. Took about seventeen photos of her “cozy reading setup” and posted them to Instagram while I tried not to hover.
Tuesday, more people came. Friends of the girl from Monday, probably. They oohed and aahed over the changes. Bought books. Took more photos. Tagged the bookstore in their posts.
Wednesday brought even more customers. Word was spreading. Social media was working its magic. People were actually coming to Woods & Pages voluntarily.
It was more than I’d thought possible. More than I’d dared to hope for.
But I needed more.
I was getting greedy. My marketing brain was in overdrive, seeing opportunities everywhere. I had momentum now. I needed to capitalize on it. Push harder. Make Woods & Pages not just a nice bookstore but a destination.
And I had the perfect strategy.
I hated it. Actually hated my brain for suggesting it. But I knew it would work. It was the best marketing strategy in the world, and if there was one thing I knew, it was how women’s minds worked.
“Come here,” I said to Malachar after breakfast Wednesday morning.
He perked up immediately. Like a dog hearing the word “walk.” For the past three days, I’d barely spoken to him beyond basic instructions about bookstore tasks.
I could see how it bothered him. The way he watched me when he thought I wasn’t looking.
The way he found excuses to be in the same room.
The way his face fell every time I retreated to my bedroom.
Whatever. I was protecting my sanity.
“Yes, little mate?” His voice was deeper than usual.
I held out the package that had arrived from yesterday. “Put this on.”
His eyes went dark. Dragged from the clothes to my face. “You wish to see me in this, mate?” His voice had gone rougher. “Is this some... fantasy of yours?”
My face went nuclear. “No! It’s not that. I need your help with something, and you have to wear this to help.”
He didn’t look convinced. But his hands immediately went to the hem of the t-shirt he was wearing. Started to pull it up.
“Not here!” I squeaked.
He paused. Lifted one eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because - just go change in the bathroom!”
“You have seen me naked, little mate. Multiple times. Why does this bother you?”
He had a point. A very good point that I chose to ignore.
“Okay, fine.” I crossed my arms. “Change here. But let me check your injuries first. Have you been treating them like I showed you?”
“No.”
I blinked. “What do you mean, no?”
“I have not been treating them.”
“Malachar!” Alarm shot through me. “I gave you everything you needed! The cream, the bandages, the instructions-”
“I know.” He was still watching me with that intense gaze. “But I like when you do it. I did not want to... mess with your work.”
I didn’t know what to feel about that. Frustration? Concern? Something warmer that I absolutely refused to acknowledge?
He pulled his shirt over his head before I could form a coherent response.
I gasped.
The wounds across his ribs were angry red. Not bleeding, but not healing either. Still raw and painful-looking. The bite on his shoulder looked even worse, the edges inflamed.
“Are you kidding me right now?” I marched over to the first aid supplies. “You’ve been walking around with infected wounds for three days?”
“They are not infected. Simply not healing.”
“Because you’re not treating them!” I grabbed the antibiotic cream. The good stuff I’d ordered online after realizing the regular drugstore variety wasn’t cutting it. “Sit. Now.”
He obeyed, settling onto one of the kitchen chairs. His bare torso was on full display. All those muscles and scars and that insufferable smirk.
I tried to focus on the wounds. Only the wounds. Not the way his skin felt under my fingers. Not the way his chest rose and fell with each breath. Not the way he was watching me.
I squeezed cream onto my fingers and started dabbing it along the worst of the gashes on his ribs.
He grunted. The sound rumbled through his chest.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “This might sting. You’re making it worse by not taking care of yourself.” I worked the cream in carefully, trying to be gentle. “Why would you not treat these? They have to hurt.”
“The pain reminds me I am here. With you. That this is real.”
My hands stilled. “That’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It is the truth.”
I blew cool air over the cream to help with the sting. He made a noise that was half groan and half purr, vibrating through his whole body.
I looked up.
We were close. Too close. I was standing between his knees, leaning in to reach the wound on his shoulder. His face was inches from mine. His eyes were locked on my lips.
The air felt charged. Electric. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it.
I thought about what it would feel like to be kissed by him.
To close this distance, stop fighting whatever this was between us.
My lips tingled at the thought of his soft mouth against mine, how he might bite my lower lip before plunging his tongue deep, battling with mine.
How my hand would tug at his hair, the other one dragging through his abs and lower…
His hand came up slowly, giving me time to pull away. He cupped my chin and tilted my face up toward his.
His breath ghosted across my lips. Warm, minty from my toothpaste.
I started to lean in. Just a fraction, enough that our noses almost touched-
Then panic hit me. Cold and sudden and overwhelming. I couldn’t do this. This wasn’t - He wasn’t - And I couldn’t-
“The portal,” I blurted out. “Is it still open?”
He blinked. The moment shattered. “What?”
“The portal. To your world. Can you go back?”
I stepped back, putting distance between us. My hands were shaking so I clasped them together to hide it.
He watched me retreat with an expression I couldn’t read. “I have not tried.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am too weak.” He gestured at his wounds. “The first crossing took all my energy. If I attempt to return now, in this state, I will not survive the journey.”
My stomach dropped. “So you’re stuck here.”
“For now, yes.” He stood, moving closer. I held my ground this time. “But even if I could cross, little mate, I would not wish to. You are here. Where you are is where I wish to be.”
My heart clenched. Actually physically clenched in my chest.
“Right. Well.” I cleared my throat. Pointed at the clothes still in their package on the counter. “You can try those on now.”
I turned away as I heard fabric rustling. The sound of him moving. Changing. I stared at the wall, at the coffee maker, at anything except the half-naked werewolf behind me.
“Okay,” he said after a moment. “You can look.”
I turned around.
Bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.
Holy hell.
He was wearing a black compression shirt with long sleeves that clung to every muscle in his torso. Gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His hair was still messy from sleep, and combined with the outfit, he looked absolutely devastating.
Heat flooded through me. My mouth went dry. I needed to open a window. Turn down the heat. Jump in a cold shower. All of the above.
“Do you like it?” His voice was pure sin. He knew exactly what he looked like. The bastard was smirking.
Fucking hell.
“Is that a yes?”
Oh god. Had I said that out loud?
“I - you look good. Yes.” My voice came out strangled. “That’s fine. Perfect. That works.”
He moved closer, predatory. “What exactly does this work for, little mate?”
Right. The plan. I had a plan. A malevolent, manipulative, absolutely genius plan that I hated myself for thinking of.
But it was going to work. I knew it was going to work.
“Marketing,” I managed. “You’re going to help me with marketing.”
“By wearing these clothes?”