Chapter 28 - Wolfson
The house makes its old-man noises, wood settling and pipes sighing. Right on cue, one of Frankie’s old men flushes a toilet upstairs.
Beyond the kitchen window, a strip of water flashes silver. The dock slaps and mutters. Somewhere, a gull yells profanity. The air through the cracked window feels heavy and wet like a tongue on my skin. Summer’s here, creeping up the back steps.
I build a plate for Dove, going overboard with sliced apples, eggs, toast, and thick smears of jam. I pour her coffee and add cream until it turns the color of wet sand.
The bloom of milk in the mug is a small, lovely thing. I want to give her more small, lovely things until the pile of them is big enough to stand on and see our future. Together.
Frankie watches me and says nothing, which is another gift. I set the cup on the tray and look up.
Her eyes shine bright. “I love you.”
“Love you more, ma cerise chérie.”
I tuck the journals under my arm, grab the tray, and kiss the top of her head on my way out.
The walk back is shorter than it was an hour ago. Inside the guest house, the air smells like wet cedar and the faint, old sweetness of wooden bones.
Upstairs, I set the tray on the dresser and stand still, listening.
Dove makes a small sound in her sleep and shifts, the sheet whispering against her shoulder. I carry the coffee to the nightstand and set it down where she can reach it. The movement wakes her.
Her eyes open, honey warm, then sharpen. Sleep to fight in an instant.
When she sees it’s me, she softens around the mouth, and the sight kicks me behind the knees. Her eyes sweep over me, taking in the purple robe like it’s a statement I didn’t intend to make.
“You smell like breakfast,” she rasps.
“Eat.”
“You okay?” She sits up and reaches for the toast first, like a civilized person.
“Better.”
“Cool,” she says around a mouthful of bread. “Because last night, you looked like a drowned prince, and I was seconds away from dragging you out of the shower by your hair and mouth-to-mouthing you without your consent.”
“Would’ve been awkward.”
“Which part?”
“The hair pulling.”
“I’d have managed.” She sips coffee, considers the color, and nods. “You remember how I take it. That’s either sweet or creepy.”
“Both.”
Her grin is a small, tilting sun.
“What’s that?” She directs her gaze to the books under my arm.
I hold up Frankie’s journal. “This one is a map.”
“Of what?”
“Hell. And how four people walked out.”
She squints at the book, then at me. “You gonna read it?”
“I’ll try.” The admission costs me, and it buys something, too. I show her the blank journal. “I might write a story.”
Her brows rise with interest. “About?”
“The fall of a drag queen.” With Frankie’s voice still warm in my head, I add, “And her resurrection as a wolf.”
Dove chews that answer like she chews toast. Thoughtfully.
“Love that,” she finally says. “I’ve never been interested in Prince Charming. Too boring.” She yawns. “So overdone. But an artistic, chain-smoking wolf in fuck-me boots and eyeliner? Now we’re talking.”
“That’s convenient. I’ve been hoarding cigarettes and sharpies for years.”
“Prove it.” She tips her chin at the blank journal. “With words.”
“Bossy.”
Lifting a shoulder, she takes another bite, and crumbs stick to her lower lip.
I stand there like an idiot, wanting to kiss them off. “I need a shower.”
“Go.” She lowers her voice. “Before I beg you to return to bed and this turns into a problem.”
“It’s already a problem.”
She slides back the covers beside her, inviting me to crawl into that empty spot.
I want to. By God and his frostbitten nuts, I want to. The smell of her skin. The shape of her beneath the sheets. Every part of me is wired to dive back under, crawl into her heat, and forget.
I shouldn’t. Because I’m carrying the taste of her brother’s come in my mouth.
But I need her. My bones ache with it.
I can’t. If I take what she’s offering, it won’t be clean. It’ll be a theft.
My feet move before I decide. The exit is closer than the bed, and I take it, gripping the doorframe until my knuckles blanch.
Behind me, the covers rustle.
I look back.
Her room is ordinary. A bed for two people, a chair that’s never used, clothes on the floor. The ordinariness is a benediction.
Ordinary means no one is starving or freezing or bleeding beneath a rutting devil. Ordinary means there’s a lock on the bedroom door for privacy not protection, and the world didn’t end in a cabin.
“I’ll tell you what happened with Jag yesterday, and about the monster who raised me and the doctor who cut me.
I’ll introduce you to every boogeyman in my closet.
” The promise scrapes out like gravel, and I can’t look at her, not directly.
“But first, I need today to get my head straight. Can you give me that?”
“If you need space, I can go to work for a while. Keep my hands busy and earn my keep.”
She’s offering me distance like it’s mercy, like the only help she knows how to give is her absence.
My gut twists, because she doesn’t get it. Sending her away from the island is the last thing I want. But it might be the only way I can have a come-to-Jesus with my demons.
“Only if you take the bodyguards.” I meet her eyes. “And only if you promise you’ll come back to me after.” Begging totally kills my vibe, but I’m doing it anyway. “I know you’re not sure about us. I get it. Just… Give me the day. Listen to my horror story tonight. Then decide.”
Every nerve in me waits for her to flinch. To tell me to keep my monsters to myself.
“Wolf…” Her shoulders drop on a sigh. “I don’t want to go. I just… I worry being here makes it worse for you.”
Her honesty hits harder than if she’d pulled away. She doesn’t make it worse. She’s the only thing that makes it bearable.
“But if what you need is time, I’ll give it.” She straightens. “I’ll be back tonight. And I’ll listen.”
Relief and dread collide in me, a lightning crash behind the ribs.
How will she look at me after I tell her what I did with Jag and what Denver did to me? It won’t make her jump my bones, that’s for damn sure.
“Tonight.” I push off the doorframe and don’t wait for her answer.
Down the hall and in my room, I dump the journals on my bed and tackle easy tasks. Shower, clean teeth, heavy eyeliner, and clothes.
The last one requires some thought.
If I’m about to drown in Frankie’s journal, I need pieces that will hold up when my ribs come undone and my insides spill out.
I pull on black jeans, stiff with wear, and a gray T-shirt so tattered and ugly it matches my scars. Over that, a flannel with sleeves rolled to the elbows. No color. No flair. The whole outfit screams, I’m still here but not pretty about it.
With the journals under my arm, I head downstairs and find Dove by the door, shrugging into her bomber jacket.
She showered, too, her damp hair half-up, half-loose. A messy knot high on her head lets waves of electric blue tumble around her shoulders. More strands fall in her eyes, and she doesn’t bother pushing them away.
I catch a flash of a tank top, cropped at her midriff, baring a heavenly slice of skin. Pants black as asphalt, pockets stitched over pockets, and boots with green neon laces.
My chest tightens with the sudden, stupid thought. When she walks out that door, I won’t be the one who gets to follow her.
I need to let her leave, but my eyes won’t let go.
She’s zipping up her jacket when I cut across the room and block the door.
“If clothes can confess a mood…” I tilt my head. “Yours say, Princess of the scrapyard. Kiss me dirty or don’t bother.”
“Not wrong.” Her lips curve.
“What do mine say?”
She examines my outfit and returns to my face. “Falling apart, but the seams are stubborn.”
Christ. My chest stutters. That’s it. That’s me. How does she do that?
Before I think better of it, I fist the back of her neck, clamp a hand on her hip, and haul her against me.
My mouth crashes down on hers, hard and hungry. She gasps, lips parting, and I dive in. Sweet heat and cool metal from her piercing roll against my tongue.
The kiss is teeth and desperation, the clash of breath caught and stolen. Her hands are everywhere, clutching my flannel, sliding under it, nails scraping skin and setting me ablaze.
My ribs ache from the pressure of her chest against mine, the way we weld together. Still, I grip her tighter, anchoring myself against the inevitability of letting her go.
The pleasure of her kiss in my mouth is seductive and surreal, flooding me with fire and sparks that make every muscle twitch. My hips drag toward hers, reaching, chasing, controlled by a magnetic pull.
Not a drop of blood remains in my head. Every ounce drains south, pounding thick in my cock. Her heat seeps into my skin, burning through muscle, spreading fast, and untangling nerves wound too tight for too long.
I didn’t realize how shattered and empty I was until she started fitting into the cracks, until this fragile, feverish happiness started chasing away a lifetime of coldness.
“God, I love the way you kiss.” She slides her nose along mine, nibbling at my lips. “I don’t want to go.”
Breaking apart feels like ripping open stitches, but there’s comfort in her reluctance, in knowing she hates the separation, too.
“Good luck today, Wolf.” She drops a kiss on my bottom lip. “Text me if you need me. I’ll drop my tools and head back the second you do. Got it?”
I nod and force myself to let her step back, force my fingers to unclench from her jacket. She opens the door, and the morning light outlines her in a holy, angelic glow.
The second she’s gone, I snatch my phone and fire off a text to her guards.
Me: Escort Dove from the island to work. Don’t let her out of your sight. If she doesn’t come back to me tonight, don’t bother coming back yourselves.
GI Joe Carl: Understood, sir. We’ll maintain constant visual contact, comms on, and keep you updated with ETA and any deviation.