Chapter One #2
Someone who doesn’t follow the path of least resistance, that’s who.
I wrap the blanket around my waist and pull it almost as tight as my nerves.
It’s wool, and it itches a little, and on the one hand, I wonder why a wolf would care if I’m naked or not.
Werewolves are not known for their modesty.
On the other hand, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t wrong about that initial flash of desire, so maybe this is better.
If this is some weird-ass game of fuck, marry, kill . . .
“Okay.” I step outside the tent, my gut twisting itself in knots. “I’m ready.”
It takes a minute before he approaches, long enough for me to wonder if he’d deserted me too.
Would he have left all his stuff? No, though—I glance around—there’s no trail that I can see, no road, no vehicle.
He comes through the trees, and before I can think better of it, I ask, “How the hell did you get everything in here?”
“Sit down.” He gestures to the chair. I do as I’m told, adjusting the blanket to keep my junk covered.
He squats in front of me, his expression stern. “Show me.”
“Wait, what?”
“Your injury.”
“Oh.” I can’t help the laugh that escapes. If he’d said “your dick,” I would have whipped it out in a second. I’m five eight in running shoes, and apparently, I’ve got a thing for super-tall mystery dudes.
I raise my foot so he can see the cut. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Is that the only one?”
“I guess?” I feel along my arms and shoulders. “I’m mostly just sore, like my wolf ran further than he should have.”
“Hmm.” He stands, giving me a once-over. My nose has grown immune to his strong wolf scent, but from this close, I’m a little in awe of his power.
Correction: a lot in awe of his power. Except weirdly, I’m less afraid than when I was in his tent. Up close, there’s nothing directly threatening in his vibe. More or less.
“I’ll get some water,” he says.
Water. “Oh, man, if I could have something to drink, that would be amazing.”
“Of course.”
I track him as he moves to the cooler on the side of the tent. Water sloshes, and then he’s back with a cup. “Here.”
Am I worried he would try to drug or poison me? Maybe? Maybe not. If he was going to kill me, he would have already. Path of least resistance, remember? I down it in one swallow. “Thank you.”
He takes the cup from me, and in a moment, he’s back with a refill, along with a bowl of water and a rag. “Let me see your foot.”
I drink the second cup as quickly as the first and reach for the rag. “I can do it. You don’t need to . . .” Before I can come up with something clever—or not completely stupid—he’s got ahold of my ankle and begins dabbing the cut. “Dang. That stings.”
His only response is a soft grunt. He holds my foot so it’s over the bowl and, using the rag as a scoop, pours water over the cut. The sting fades a lot faster than my embarrassment.
“You really don’t need to do that.”
“You’re right.” His expression softens, and while he isn’t smiling, he’s less intimidating. “I want to help you.”
“Why?”
That does prompt a grin, one that raises my heart rate and chubs my dick.
“Because helping a pretty man who’s lost his way is more fun than, well, what I’m supposed to be doing.”
Pretty man? Fuck me, I’m done. I meet his smile with one of my own. “And what is that?”
He shrugs, settling onto his heels. “Planning to halt the downfall of civilization.”
“Is that right?”
“Close enough.”
I scroll through a bunch of options here.
The strength of his scent and his aura of power tell me he’s an old, old wolf, but nothing about him reads irrational.
There’s a note of truth in what he says, though, that I can’t ignore.
He believes he’s going to do something major, though I can’t imagine how.
“Well, I appreciate the help.” I fall back on manners. “I should probably take off and let you get back to . . . downfall halting.”
He laughs, and the sound catches me off guard. I want to tell him everything, all my secrets, so if one of us has boundary issues, I guess it’s me.
“What’s your name, little wolf?”
“Marcus,” I choke out.
He extends a hand. “And I am John. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
We shake, and his hand feels about twice as big as mine. His expression sobers, as if he senses how easily he could roll me.
“So tell me,” he says. “How did you come to be alone in the woods?”
“Who am I? Red Riding Hood?”
His gaze flickers over me, a flash of fire that disappears as quickly as it came. “No hood that I can see.”
Shaking my head, I remind myself that sharing details is a bad idea. “I don’t know. I don’t always remember what happens when my wolf takes over.”
He stands, his knees crackling as he reaches his full height, and plants his fists on his hips. His hard stare makes it blatantly obvious that he could compel me to tell him the truth if he wanted. He’s an alpha’s alpha, one who could make my Uncle Randolph sit down and shut up.
And Uncle Randolph is the top dog for the whole United States. The American Alpha. In the world of werewolves, he is a big fucking deal.
John might well be bigger.
So yeah, there’s not a doubt in my mind that John could force me to talk. Thank fuck he doesn’t. Instead, he gives me a headshake that’s equal parts annoyed and amused. “I’ll be right back.”
He rustles around in the tent for a minute, and I about come outta my skin when a wad of fabric hits me in the head. “Put it on,” he says. “It’s the only thing I have that will come close to fitting you.”
Hoping he didn’t notice my undignified little yelp, I shake out the thing he threw at me. “A dress?”
“A tunic.” A leather strap bounces off my shoulder. “Here. You can use that for a belt.”
I get dressed, sort of. The tunic is basically a large pillowcase with holes for my arms and head.
It’s made out of some kind of coarse linen in a dusty plum color, and the shoulders drape down to my elbows.
The leather strap goes around my waist twice and, after I tie the knot, the loose ends hang to my knees.
My junk is still a stiff breeze short of exposure, but at least the linen itches less than the blanket.
“Are you into the Ren Faire scene?” I ask. That’s the only reason I can come up with to explain why he’d have a tunic.
He gives me a blank look, so I drop it and try a different angle. “Do you have a cell phone?”
“I was about to make breakfast. Will you join me?”
Guess that means no. My wolf growls at the thought of food. “That’d be great.”
“I thought as much.”
“Can I help?”
John tosses something else in my direction. A pair of knitted socks. “Put those on. Then you can slice the potatoes.”
The intensity of his stare—nearly a glare, really—keeps me from putting up a fuss about going barefoot. Probably a good idea to keep the dirt out of the cut he just cleaned. With no further protest, I do as I’m told.
At some point, I’m going to know better than to do that.
“Here.” He hands me two spuds, a knife that looks antique, and a well-used cutting board. “I’ll stoke the fire, and”—he stares over my head into the trees—“Rob will be here soon. He’ll have a telephone of some kind.”
“Great. That’d be . . . fine. Awesome.” Assuming we’re not completely out of cell phone range. If I can, I’ll call my own phone and see who—if anyone—picks up.
John busies himself with the fire while I settle back in the chair, cutting board in my lap. Is this scene a little weird? Heck yes. Is this dude like anyone I’ve ever met? Not really, no. He’s giving me strong Aragorn-as-Strider vibes and apparently I’ve got a thing for Ren Faire drop-outs.
Do I know what’s going to happen next?
I have no fucking clue.