17. Harley
Harley
The apartment finally quiets down, though “quiet” is relative considering Ryder keeps muttering under his breath every few minutes like he still hasn’t fully accepted the fact that I’m apparently mated to a giant scarred wolf with an eyepatch and a tendency to bleed on my furniture.
Honestly, fair.
Val eventually pushes himself upright from the couch with a faint grimace he clearly thinks I won’t notice.
I notice immediately.
“You’re limping again,” I say.
“I never stopped limping.”
“True, but now you’re trying to hide it.”
Val gives me a look over his shoulder while making his slow careful way toward the kitchen. “You’re observant. It’s deeply inconvenient.”
“I contain multitudes.”
Ryder snorts from where he’s sprawled on the floor near the coffee table.
He looks strange there, calmer now that he’s not actively trying to murder Val, though the tension hasn’t fully left him.
Every so often his gaze still tracks Val’s movements too closely, suspicious and wary in a way that makes my chest ache for him a little.
Whatever happened after he got turned clearly wrecked him almost as badly as what happened to me wrecked me.
Val opens cabinets with the cautious uncertainty of somebody still unfamiliar with the apartment layout. “You have approximately nothing useful in here.”
“I was depressed,” I inform him.
“You have crackers, vodka, and three kinds of hot sauce.”
“I contain spicy multitudes.”
That finally earns a startled laugh out of Ryder, rough and rusty like he hasn’t used it much lately. The sound hits me harder than I expect. I can’t remember the last time I heard my brother laugh naturally instead of barking out something harsh and defensive.
Val glances back toward us, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “I stand corrected. Apparently Harley’s nutritional plan is sustained entirely through chaos.”
“It worked this long.”
“Did it?” Val asks dryly.
Okay, rude.
Accurate, but rude.
I slump farther into the couch cushions while Val starts pulling ingredients together with surprising competence considering the man looks like he belongs in some violent wilderness survival documentary instead of somebody’s kitchen.
“You cook?” I ask suspiciously.
Val shrugs one shoulder. “Pack life. You learn.” His mouth twitches faintly. “Also Marcus says if somebody can field-strip a rifle but can’t make eggs, they’ve failed as an adult.”
Ryder stares at him. “That sounds weirdly reasonable.”
“That’s because Marcus is terrifyingly competent,” I mutter.
Val snorts softly under his breath while pulling a pan from beneath the stove.
Watching him move around my kitchen does strange things to my insides.
Not just attraction either, though there’s definitely that too.
Something deeper. Domestic. The simple sight of Val existing comfortably in my space feels oddly intimate after everything else tonight.
Warmth brushes lightly through the bond again, less overwhelming now than before. More settled. Like my body’s accepted something important and stopped fighting it.
Ryder notices me staring and groans dramatically. “There’s the creepy eye thing again.”
“I do not have a creepy eye thing.”
“You absolutely do,” Ryder informs me. “You look at him like he personally invented happiness.”
Heat crawls straight up my neck while Val nearly drops the spatula he just picked up.
“Oh my God,” I mutter.
Val clears his throat suspiciously loudly. “Anyone want coffee?”
Coward.
“I’d kill for coffee,” Ryder admits quietly.
Something in his tone pulls my attention away from teasing immediately. Exhaustion sits heavily beneath every movement he makes now that the rage has burned off. He looks filthy, worn thin, and painfully lost sitting there on my floor in borrowed sweats while trying not to stare too openly at Val.
“When did this happen?” I ask softly.
Ryder’s shoulders tighten instantly.
“The turning?” He nods once without looking at me. “Couple months ago maybe. Hard to keep track now.”
A bad feeling curls through my stomach. “You’ve been alone that whole time?”
Ryder laughs once without humor. “Mostly.” He rubs both hands hard over his face. “Didn’t know what the hell was happening to me at first. Thought I was sick. Then I shifted in an alley behind a gas station and nearly lost my damn mind.”
Jesus.
I look helplessly toward Val.
Val’s expression’s gone grim again, all traces of teasing fading. “Whoever turned you should’ve stayed,” he says quietly. “You don’t abandon a newly turned wolf alone.”
“Well, he did.” Ryder’s voice roughens. “Bit me at a bar after drugging me, then dumped me somewhere outside Flagstaff.” His mouth twists viciously. “Woke up covered in blood two days later with no clue what I’d done.”
Silence drops heavily through the apartment. Val turns back toward the stove slowly, jaw tight enough to flex. “That’s not okay at all.”
“No kidding.”
“No,” Val says more sharply. “I mean it. Forced turnings are rare enough already. Abandoning somebody afterward…” He shakes his head once. “That’s rogue behavior. Dangerous rogue behavior.”
Ryder folds his arms tightly across his chest. “You keep saying rogue like I’m supposed to know what that means.”
“It means outside pack law,” Val explains while stirring eggs one-handed. “No structure. No oversight. Wolves without accountability.”
“Sounds fun.”
“It really isn’t.”
The flat certainty in Val’s voice finally makes Ryder look at him properly instead of defensively. For a second neither of them speaks.
Then Ryder sighs heavily and scrubs one hand through his hair again. “Look, I still don’t trust you.”
“Fair.”
“But…” Ryder grimaces like the word physically hurts him. “You haven’t actually acted like a psycho yet.”
I snort before I can stop myself.
Val looks offended. “That’s your endorsement?”
“It’s the best you’re getting tonight.”
Val considers that solemnly while plating eggs and toast. “I’ll treasure it always.”
To my absolute shock, Ryder barks out another laugh.
And just like that, some of the awful tension finally eases out of the room.