Chapter 11 Theodore
Theodore
Kit
Have you arrived? Rory isn’t answering his messages.
His phone is perpetually dead, so that could be why. Yes, we arrived an hour ago. We haven’t seen the bulk of your family yet - that pleasure is tonight.
Three dots swirl, then stop. Swirl, then stop.
Finally:
I’m eternally in your debt for going with him. I can’t tell you how much of a coward I feel.
No sweat. I’m enjoying the fresh country air.
Keep a close eye on him for me. I’m worried about how he’s going to react, being back up there.
I stared at Kit’s message, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Keep a close eye on him. The weight of that responsibility settled on my shoulders like a physical thing.
A week ago, I would have laughed, but now, here I was, pretending to be Rory Thorne’s boyfriend in the Scottish Highlands, my fingers itching to reassure his brother that it wasn’t just him in Rory’s corner.
The cottage was quaint—exposed beams and stone hearth. The living room had that unlived-in quality of a holiday rental, with generic landscapes on the walls.
I checked my watch, and my stomach knotted.
Earlier, we’d sat down and Rory had started going through some of what he still knew about the key players of the Thorne Pack.
Now, in forty-five minutes, I’d meet them at dinner.
I’d faced murderers and monsters, but meeting Rory’s estranged family made me uneasy.
Perhaps because I knew how much it mattered to him, despite his cavalier attitude.
My phone buzzed. Mum’s name flashed on the screen. I glanced at the ceiling—Rory was still showering upstairs. I was safe to take the call.
“Hey, Ma.”
“Theodore! How are you, darling?” Her tone suggested she hadn’t heard from me in months, not days.
“I’m all good, Ma. I know I said I’d call you when we arrived yesterday, but we actually had to stop over somewhere. We only got to Scotland today.”
“Did my car get you there alright?”
“Yeah, smooth sailing. Thank you again.”
A pause. “And how’s George?”
My stomach lurched. I hadn’t explicitly mentioned George’s name when I’d asked to borrow her car, but she’d assumed, as he’d joined me on a few hiking trips before.
“Actually…” I started, not entirely sure what I was going to say. “I’m not up here with George.”
A long silence, then… “Theodore James Maxwell! Are you telling me you’re on some romantic getaway and you didn’t tell your own mother?”
The accusation in her voice made me wince. But perhaps it was easier if I went along with this, then tell her it had fizzled out.
“Something like that.”
She squeaked—an actual squeak of delight. “Tell me about her! What’s she like?”
I found myself thinking of golden hair catching sunlight, of quick wit and infectious laughter. “They’re… brilliant. Funny. Brave to the point of recklessness sometimes. Always says exactly what they’re thinking.”
“Oh, Theodore, I’m so pleased! You know I’ve been hoping you’d find someone special. Maybe I’ll finally get those grandchildren I’ve been pestering you about.”
The image slammed into me—Rory surrounded by two small children, running circles around him in some sun-drenched garden. The sound that escaped my throat was somewhere between a choke and a laugh.
The shower shut off upstairs.
“Listen, Ma, I’ve got to go—”
“Of course, of course! I won’t bother you again. Just… call me when you’re back in London, yeah? I’m so happy for you, love.”
I fought to calm my racing heart as floorboards creaked above me.
“Hey, Teddy Bear,” Rory called down. “I forgot my towel. It’s in my luggage.”
I sighed, but found myself rifling through his chaotically packed suitcase anyway, still sprawled across the living room. Freddy snapped his razor-sharp teeth at me, as if guarding Rory’s toothbrush and underwear.
Upstairs, the bathroom door was closed, steam escaping through the gaps.
I knocked twice. “Delivery service.”
The door cracked open just enough for Rory’s damp face to appear, blonde hair darkened and plastered to his forehead. Cheeks flushed, a scattering of droplets shimmered in his eyelashes.
“My hero,” he said, extending one bare arm.
I handed him the towel, but the door shifted slightly wider. My eyes betrayed me, dropping downward before I could stop them. I caught a glimpse of wet thigh, the sharp curve of his hip, before Rory deftly adjusted his position behind the door.
Our eyes met, and my face burned hotter than the steam billowing from the bathroom.
“Can I help you with something else, Detective?” His voice was teasing, but with an underlying tension.
I froze, standing there for an awkward moment, pulse hammering in my neck. Then I wordlessly pivoted and headed downstairs, my thoughts in disarray, wondering how I was going to make it through this entire evening without having a breakdown or my body betraying me.
When I heard him coming down, I turned to the window, feigning interest in the misty moor.
The countryside stretched in watercolour washes of purple and green, but I wasn’t seeing any of it.
My peripheral vision was consumed by Rory’s reflection—hair dripping, nothing but the towel knotted precariously at his waist.
I swallowed hard and pressed my forehead against the cool glass.
“Which jumper should I wear?” Rory’s voice broke through my determined study of a rock formation.
Despite my better judgement, I turned. Beads of water traced paths down his shoulders, catching the light. “What? Why are you asking me?”
“Because… you’re the only one here?”
Rory held up two jumpers—one a safe beige, the other a chunky cable knit in a rich, vibrant hue that caught my attention.
It was the exact same impossible shade as his eyes—that mercurial blue-green that shifted like water, never settling on a single hue, defying description even to a man who collected words like treasures.
“That one,” I said, nodding towards it before I could stop myself.
He tossed the beige one aside and reached for the chosen jumper.
My gaze betrayed me, dropping to the lean expanse of his torso—the defined ridges of his abdomen tensing as he stretched, the contours of a landscape I had no right to map.
A narrow trail of dark-gold hair descended from his navel, disappearing beneath the fluffy cotton that hung dangerously low on his hips.
I turned back to the window. Nature had never seemed so fascinating.
“Good choice,” Rory said behind me. “Kit says it brings out my eyes.”
I made a noncommittal sound, not trusting myself to speak. To tell him how much it intensified that changeable colour that reminded me of deep forest pools in summer, of stormy seas in winter, of everything wild and untamed that I shouldn’t want but couldn’t stop thinking about.
Thank fuck I was the telepath, and not him.
Though Rory wasn’t blind. Or stupid.
“Though, isn’t it a fancy dinner or something?” I smoothed down the front of my crisp white button-down, suddenly self-conscious. At least I was wearing dark jeans.
“I don’t give a shit.” Rory glanced up from wrestling with his phone charger, his eyes widening slightly. “You look nice, though.”
I blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. Had I just received an actual, genuine compliment from Rory Thorne? The same man who’d spent the better part of eighteen months referring to me exclusively as “Detective Dickface”?
“But maybe…” Rory abandoned his charging cable and approached me slowly, as if I were a wild animal he was trying not to startle.
He reached for my arm, his fingers hovering near my wrist. I made no move to stop him.
With surprising delicacy, Rory took hold of my cuff and began rolling the sleeve up my forearm, his movements deliberate and precise.
Every brush of his fingertips against my skin sent ripples of awareness through me.
He folded the fabric neatly, three turns that ended just below my elbow.
I extended my other arm without a word, watching as he repeated the process. Where his fingers grazed my skin, the static heat between us intensified, every tiny hair on my arm standing to attention.
“Much better,” he murmured, stepping back to assess his handiwork.
Zap.
There it was again—that electrifying shock, jumping between us like a living thing.
Our eyes snapped together, and I froze, waiting for him to laugh it off as a “wolf thing” again.
But instead, his teeth sought his lip, worrying at the skin there, his gaze dropping momentarily to my rolled sleeves before darting away.
Well, if he didn’t want to talk about it, I sure as hell wasn’t going to mention it.
Twenty minutes later—after waiting for Rory’s phone to charge to thirty percent, and then for him to say a rather extended goodbye to Freddy involving multiple kisses on his creepy little head—we finally left.
The evening air carried a bite as we walked towards the manor, the misty landscape swallowing the sun’s fading light. Rory walked beside me, his steps slowing as we approached the main path. His earlier bravado seemed to have evaporated, replaced by a tightly wound tension.
“He hid it well,” I said, breaking the silence. “But your uncle was very suspicious of me earlier.”
Rory glanced sideways at me, his lips quirking up slightly. “Of course he was suspicious. They all will be. You’re not pack.” He shrugged. “But don’t worry so much about Alex. He’s not that close with my mother. He’s the only nice one.”
We followed the winding path through a copse of silver birch trees, their pale trunks ghostly in the fading light.
“Is he?”