Chapter 17 - Dove
I don’t hear the door slam behind Wolf. He just leaves. Silently. That’s somehow worse.
My throat aches, and I don’t know why.
I don’t know why he looked at me like that before disappearing.
The look wasn’t angry. Not exactly. It was tense and closed off, as if he wanted to say something but decided it would hurt.
Removing my tool belt, I bend to untie the laces and swap the skates for my boots. Then I sit there for a second.
Okay. So maybe he’s mad. But not about the skates. That would be stupid.
The skates arrived in that box. The one with the clothes. The new tool belt. The perfume I haven’t touched. All of it handpicked by the man who used to braid my hair with bloodstains under his fingernails.
I stare at the skates, black with red laces, just like the pair I left in California. But not the same ones. My old skates had cracks in the wheels and a missing toe stop.
These are brand new.
I didn’t ask for them. I didn’t ask for any of it. But Jag sent it anyway, like he always does. Strings attached. Mind games sharpened to a razor point. He doesn’t care what I wear. He cares what it does to me.
And maybe… What it does to Wolf.
Is that what this is?
Jealousy?
I scoff under my breath and immediately hate myself for it.
Does Wolf even get jealous? Not with me.
Except he looked at me like I betrayed something unspoken between us.
Did I?
Am I supposed to feel guilty? For wearing the shit Jag sent me?
Because I don’t.
Or… I do. A little.
But I shouldn’t.
Jag stole everything from me. He burned through my life more times than I can count. I left my favorite pair of skates behind when I ran from the last dumpster fire. He owes me this. And I need clothes. It would be dumb to throw them away.
Still…
Maybe I should’ve said something to Wolf. Warned him. Explained. Is that what normal women do? They… Talk? Confront conflicts? Decode feelings?
I don’t know how to do that. I only know how to survive.
But something in me says, Try.
Grabbing my jacket, I lock the shop and head out to find him.
I don’t have to go far.
Across the street, he huddles beneath an awning, a cigarette glowing at the corner of his mouth, his eyes locked on his phone.
I shove my hands in my coat pockets and close the distance. I hate this part. Talking. People-ing. Being human. I’m terrible at it.
But I’ll do it for him.
“Hey.” My voice comes out scratchy. Useless.
He looks up. Doesn’t speak. Just flicks ash to the pavement.
“You left.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t want to interrupt your roller disco.”
“It’s not a disco. I was working.”
“Sure.” He doesn’t smile. Not even a little.
“Look, I didn’t…” My pulse skips up my neck. “He sent the box. I didn’t ask for it. It’s just clothes. And skates. It’s not a message or whatever you think it is.”
His arctic eyes stay on me as his face shifts into an eerie calm. A quiet, curling fury. Warrior-mode. Beautiful and terrifying.
“Kai will collect the box and bring it to the island.” He pockets his phone and empties his expression. “If you want to keep it, fine. If not, we can burn it. Doesn’t matter to me.”
“Okay.” I blink.
“I want to take you somewhere.”
“What?”
“I want to show you something.” He crushes the cigarette under his heel. “You game?”
I nod, too fast.
“Let’s go.” He offers his elbow.
“Where are Carl and Jasper?” I loop my arm through his and let him lead me away from the harbor.
“Didn’t realize you were on a first-name basis with the security team.” He tilts his head, regarding me. “Do you trust them more than me?”
“No.” An easy, honest answer. But I have questions. “What do you want, Wolf?”
“Kisses on speed dial.”
“You didn’t text me today.”
He glances at me sideways, that crooked smirk reappearing. “Figured I’d give your phone a break before it filed a restraining order.” Then, softer, like he means it… “Didn’t think you’d miss me.”
“I did.” A swallow strangles my whisper. “I missed you. I thought… Did something happen? Did Jag show up?”
“Yeah. I gave him a tattoo.”
I slam to a stop, releasing his arm. “You didn’t.”
“I did. It was fucked up.”
“The tattoo?”
“All of it. But I made a deal with him.”
“No. No, you don’t deal with Jag. You don’t negotiate.” I grip my hair, knocking the messy bun loose and waving my arms around. “He doesn’t play fair. He manipulates and twists your mind until he gets what he wants.”
“Hey.” He catches my hands and brushes the fallen strands from my face, the metal from his rings cold against my cheek. “You don’t think I know that? I told you I would lure him in and play with him. That’s all this is. Do you trust me?”
“Yes, but I don’t trust him.”
“Let’s keep moving.” He scans our surroundings, his head on a swivel. “I’ll tell you about my day.”
And he does. As we stroll along the wet streets, he walks through the confrontation with his family at the shop, the negotiation he struck with Jag, and the thigh piece he spent all day inking. The beginning of a long and dangerous leg sleeve.
“What’s the design?
“A jaguar.”
Disgust and worry send my heart rate into overdrive. “He’ll try to seduce you.”
“He already tried.”
“And?”
“He’s not my type.”
“He’s everyone’s type.”
“Including yours?”
“He’s my stepbrother.” My arms wrap around my midsection before I register the defensive posture.
“What did he do to you?” He bends his knees, putting his face level with mine.
“Exactly what he’ll do to you if you continue down this path.” I spot the pack of smokes peeking from his coat pocket and swipe them, seeking a distraction.
Before I pull one free, he snatches the pack from my hand.
“Clear something up for me.” He tucks the cigarettes in his back pocket.
I brace for the question I will never answer.
“Are you a smoker?” He tilts his head. “Or am I a bad influence?”
Relief loosens my breath, and a smile touches his sculpted lips.
He’s letting me off the hook. For now.
“Both.” I smile back.
The cold, damp air sticks to our coats as he leads me around the corner. The next thing I know, we’re standing before the fogged glass doors of a local diner, the kind that smells like hash browns and burnt coffee no matter the hour.
“This is what you wanted to show me?” I follow him inside, the dining room half-full of locals hunched over plates and mugs.
“No.” He slides into a booth and waves down the server. “First, I want to feed you.”
As I start to sit opposite him, he grabs my hand and pulls me down to his side.
“Two mugs of coffee.” He wraps an arm around my waist, tugs me until our hips press together, and smiles at the older woman. “Two cheeseburgers, extra pickles, curly fries, and a slice of blueberry pie, warmed. One fork.” He angles that sexy grin toward me. “Anything else?”
“Are the pickles negotiable?” I shrug off my jacket.
“Not tonight.” He raises a brow, daring me to fight him over it.
No way in hell.
The coffee arrives first, thick and bitter. I drown mine in cream while he takes his black, one hand wrapped around the chipped mug, the other resting casually near the napkin dispenser. He’s more relaxed now. The kind of relaxed that comes after a knife fight.
“So.” I twist toward him. “Tell me more about your day with Jag.”
He leans back, stretching his legs beneath the table. “If you can call that a day. It was more like ten hours of psychological warfare with a side of needlework.”
“What did he say to you?”
He shrugs. “Talked about you mostly. About your shared trauma.” He twirls a sugar packet between his fingers. “He knows how to weaponize eye contact. The way he stares without blinking, with his mouth all soft and parted just right…” He shakes his head. “He makes everything feel sexual.”
“That’s part of the act.” I sip my coffee, wishing it was spiked. “He makes you feel significant and beautiful. Convinces you that he wants you and no one else in the world. Then he takes everything you offer and uses it to destroy you.”
“Is that what he did to you?”
“Worse.”
“Did you…?” He rolls his lips together. “Have you and he…?”
“I’ve never had sex with my stepbrother.”
His lashes flicker once, too fast, registering his shock. He looks away. “He said Gavin was a mistake.”
“Only because I found out about his betrayal.”
“Do you surround yourself with strays and freaks?” His gaze turns inward, avoiding mine. “Broken things like me?”
“That’s what he said?” My stomach drops. “Don’t listen to that. It’s bait.”
“I know.”
“You’re not broken.”
“No. Broken is too gentle for what I am.” Finally, he gives me his eyes.
“I’m cracked all to hell, Birdie. Mangled beyond repair in most places and missing some pieces.
What’s left is taped together and unraveling in ways that make people flinch and stay away.
” He leans in, his voice secret-soft. “But I like what I am. Especially when you look at me like you see it. You see me, and you still stay.”
Oh, Wolf.
“Jag sees me, too.” He smiles without humor. “But without the same effect.”
“How so?”
“I watched the way his eyes tracked me today. The way he tensed when I touched the inside of his thigh. He’s used to controlling every room he walks into. But when he’s in my space, when I have his skin stretched beneath my hands…”
“He doesn’t know what to make of you.”
“Most people don’t.” He shrugs.
“That’s a good thing.”
The food arrives, and the aroma of grease, melted cheese, and warm bread wraps me in instant comfort. I dig in like I haven’t eaten in a week, and he matches my pace. The crispy fries are perfectly curled, and the pie oozes blueberries and sugar with every forkful.
We don’t talk while we eat. Lots of eye contact, though. And smiling. The food is good, but the company is even better.
When I reach for the bill, he snatches it first and hands over a wad of cash.
“I was going to get it.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“I could have.”
“You could, but I take care of my girl. Don’t fight me on this again.” He stands and fixes me with a look that shuts down my protest.