Chapter 2 #2
"Look," he says, and Christ, he's talking to me like I'm not dangerous.
Like I'm just some guy in a bar who's mildly inconveniencing him.
"If you're planning something nefarious, can you just let me know now?
It's been a really shit night and I'm too tired for suspense.
" He waves his phone at me weakly. "Also, my roommate knows where I am, so. "
"Your roommate?" I lean forward, cataloging everything about him without meaning to.
The way his pulse flutters in his throat, steadier now but still too fast. The faint ink stain on his fingers—left hand, index and middle finger, the kind you get from writing with actual pens. Who uses pens anymore? "Robin?"
His eyes narrow. "How did you—" Then he glances at his phone, realizes the texts are still visible on the screen. "Oh."
"Robin bakes?" I ask. I shouldn't be asking. I should be figuring out how to get this human out of my bar and my territory and my head. But I saw the text about chocolate peanut butter cake, and I want to know.
"Stress bakes," he corrects, pulling the phone closer to his chest like he's protecting it. "And regular bakes. He's a pastry chef."
He. My lion's hackles rise immediately. There's a he waiting at home for Toby, baking him cake, texting to make sure he's safe. Someone else who gets to take care of him.
Not your business, I tell myself. He's not yours.
My lion disagrees.
"You should eat more," Jason interjects, sliding the basket of fries closer. "You're still shivering."
"I'm fine—"
"You're not." I cut him off before I can stop myself. He's definitely still shaking, fine tremors running through him, and I don't know if it's cold or shock or both. "Jason, get him another tea. Hot."
Jason practically sprints for the bar. The human watches him go with raised eyebrows.
"So you're clearly in charge," he observes. "That's why everyone got weird when you were coming."
"They got weird when you walked in," I point out.
"Fair." He almost smiles. "What's your name?"
"Knox."
"Knox," he repeats, like he's tasting it. "Very... motorcycle club president."
"How do you know I'm the president?"
He gestures around the room with one hand. "Everyone's watching you for cues. Jason literally jumped when you told him to get tea. And you sat down without asking if this seat was taken." The almost-smile becomes an actual smile, small but real. "Authority issues much?"
Vaughn coughs something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. I shoot him a look that promises we'll discuss this later.
"You always this mouthy with strangers?" I ask.
"Only when I'm too tired to have any sense of self-preservation." He yawns, covering his mouth with his hand, and the gesture is so unexpectedly innocent that something in my chest clenches. "Sorry. The adrenaline's wearing off."
"What's your name?"
"Toby."
Toby. It suits him somehow. Soft and a little old-fashioned, like the cardigan.
Jason returns with tea, practically vibrating with the need to take care of this human.
I can see it in the set of his shoulders, the careful way he sets the mug down, the way he hovers.
My whole pack has apparently decided to adopt Toby like a stray cat, which would be funny if it wasn't going to make my life exponentially more complicated.
"Drink," I order.
Toby rolls his eyes—actually rolls his eyes at me—but obeys, wrapping both hands around the mug. "So how long until the storm passes?"
I check the windows. The rain isn't letting up. If anything, it's getting worse, sheets of water hammering against the glass, lightning flickering in the distance.
"Could be hours."
"Hours?" He looks genuinely distressed for the first time since figuring out what we are. "But—I have work tomorrow. I need to get home."
"Where do you work?"
"Library. Downtown branch." He takes a sip of tea, grimacing slightly at the sweetness. "I'm organizing drag queen story hour this week, and if I'm not there, Margaret will absolutely use it as an excuse to cancel the whole program."
Drag queen story hour. Of course he does. Of course this soft, exhausted human in his cat cardigan spends his days reading to children and fighting bureaucrats and generally being exactly the kind of person my lion wants to wrap around and protect from everything.
"The storm will pass when it passes," I say, more roughly than intended. "Unless you want to walk home in it?"
He glares at me over the rim of his mug, and fuck if that's not more attractive than it should be. No fear now, just irritation at the situation. At me. Like I'm an inconvenience rather than a predator.
"This is kidnapping," he mutters.
"This is weather. And you're the one who walked into my bar."
"Because my phone was dead and I was stranded!"
"And now you're warm and dry and fed." I spread my hands. "You're welcome."
He opens his mouth, probably to argue more, then closes it. Takes a breath. Something shifts in his expression, the irritation fading into something softer.
"Thank you," he says quietly. "For letting me stay. And for the—" He gestures at himself, encompassing my blanket, Jason's fries, Silas's tea. "Everything."
I don't know what to do with genuine gratitude from a human who should be terrified of me. It sits wrong in my chest, too warm, too close to something I don't want to examine.
"The cats," I say instead, pointing at his cardigan. "Why cats?"
His whole face transforms.
It's like watching the sun come out. One second he's tired and resigned and barely holding it together, and the next he's glowing, animated in a way that makes him look younger and brighter and entirely too appealing.
"Found it at this amazing vintage shop on Third," he says, pulling the sodden cardigan away from his chest to show me the pattern.
"The owner said it was from the seventies.
Look, each cat has a different expression.
" He traces one with his finger, careful despite the wet fabric.
"This one's winking. This one looks scandalized.
And this one is definitely plotting something. "
He goes on about the cats. The winking one is his favorite. The scandalized one reminds him of his roommate—and there's that word again, roommate, and my lion's ears prick at the mention of Robin.
My pack slowly relaxes around us, going back to their conversations and pool games, though I can feel them keeping half an eye on our table. Toby doesn't seem to notice or care that he's holding the complete attention of an apex predator while rambling about cartoon cats on a vintage cardigan.
He's ridiculous. He's completely ridiculous, and he smells like rain and something sweet, and he's wrapped in my blanket, and he glared at me, and my lion hasn't been this interested in anything in years.
The storm rages outside. He's stuck here, in my territory, covered in my scent, and completely unaware of the danger he's in.
Or maybe the danger I'm in.
Because my lion has already decided. Has probably decided from the moment I walked through the door and caught that first hint of his scent. All the logic in the world isn't going to change it now.
Mine.