Chapter 19 #3
"Is it?" Fenrir rises from his chair, picking up my now-empty bowl. "Would you like more?"
I should say no. I should ask him to leave. Instead, I find myself nodding, watching the muscles in his back flex as he returns to the stove.
"How did you learn to cook?" I ask, desperate for safer conversational ground.
"My grandmother taught me," he says, ladling more stew into my bowl. "She said no grandson of hers would grow up unable to feed himself properly. Even warriors need to eat."
"She sounds like a smart woman."
"She is." He returns to the table, placing the refilled bowl in front of me, his fingers brushing against mine as he sets it down.
The brief contact sends a jolt of electricity up my arm. I pull back reflexively, nearly knocking over my water glass. "Sorry," I mutter. "Weird static charge."
His nostrils flare slightly, and I realize with a start that he's scenting me, the way predators do. "You're injured," he says suddenly, reaching for my hand again.
I try to pull away, but he's faster, his fingers gently capturing my wrist and turning my palm upward. A small cut crosses my palm—a souvenir from the restaurant kitchen. It’s not bleeding, but there’s a slight scab. I hadn't even noticed it.
"It's nothing," I say, but don't pull away. His touch is warm, his skin surprisingly soft despite the calluses that speak of years handling weapons. "Why did you really come here tonight?"
He doesn't answer immediately, just holds my gaze across the table. The kitchen feels smaller suddenly, the air between us charged with something I can't—or won't—name.
"Because I couldn't stay away," he finally says, the simple honesty in his voice catching me off guard. "Because something is happening between us, and I think you feel it too."
I open my mouth to deny it, but the lie won't come. Not with him looking at me like that, all earnest intensity and quiet certainty.
"I don't know what I feel," I admit instead. "This is... complicated."
"Because of what you are?" he asks gently. "Or because of what I am?"
"Both." I tug my hand free and run my fingers through my still-damp hair, suddenly aware of how I must look—exhausted, disheveled, still wearing clothes that reek of restaurant kitchen and sprinkler water.
"Look, I appreciate the... whatever this is.
The dinner. The strange conversation. But it's been a really long day, and I need to process. .. everything."
Something like disappointment flashes across his features, but he quickly masks it.
"Of course," he says, rising from his chair. "I've imposed enough for one night."
"It's not that," I say quickly, then stop, unsure why I feel the need to reassure him. "I just... need some space. A shower. Sleep."
"I understand." He begins gathering the dishes.
"You don't have to do that," I protest.
"My grandmother taught me to clean up after myself as well as cook." His smile returns, warming his eyes. "Besides, the brownies would be disappointed if I left a mess."
I shake my head, bemused. "The brownies."
He carries the dishes to the sink, his back to me again, giving me a perfect view of those intricate tattoos. The wolf design seems to shift as his muscles move beneath the skin, almost as if it's alive.
My phone buzzes in my pocket—a text notification. I pull it out, grateful for the distraction from my inappropriate ogling of the man’s back muscles.
Ghost: Heard Hayes slapped you with another rookie assignment tomorrow. Sucks. Try not to let any more brownies escape. I’d really like to have you back as my team leader in a few weeks.
Reality crashes back like a bucket of ice water. GUIDE. Hayes. My job. My cover. Everything I've built is teetering on the edge of a damned cliff because I can't seem to stop myself from helping the very creatures I'm supposed to be hunting.
"I have to go," he says, turning from the sink. "You need rest."
I look up, surprised by his sudden decision. "I thought I was the one kicking you out."
"You were," he says with a small smile. "But now I'm leaving before you have to." He gestures toward my phone. "Bad news?"
"Work stuff," I say vaguely. "Nothing important."
His expression says he doesn't believe me, but he doesn't press. Instead, he dries his hands on a kitchen towel and moves toward the living room, leaving me to follow.
He stops at the door, turning to face me again. In the dimmer light of the entryway, his features look more angular, more dangerous—reminding me that beneath the charming, cooking, bread-baking exterior is something wild and powerful. Something not human.
And Is he seriously planning to walk out like that? Half-naked in just those sweatpants? My neighbors would have a field day with the gossip. Miss Private-Keep-To-Herself suddenly has a Nordic god wandering out of her apartment at night.
"May I come back?" he asks, breaking me out of my mental sweat-pant-spiral.
I should say no. I should tell him to stay away. "I don't think that's a good idea," I say like I should.
"Perhaps not," he agrees. "But I'd like to anyway."
I start to nod, but he steps closer. So close I can feel the heat radiating from his bare chest, and can smell his intoxicating scent of earth and pine and wolf.
Slowly, giving me every chance to pull away, he leans down and brings his face to the side of my neck, just below my ear.
He inhales deeply, his breath warm against my skin, and every nerve ending in my body seems to fire at once.
That warm humming sensation beneath my skin intensifies until I'm certain I must be glowing with it.
Then he pulls back, his eyes slightly more golden than they were a moment ago.
"You smell like heaven," he murmurs. "Like wildflowers after rain. Like a midnight snowfall. Like everything I've ever wanted."
I should step back.
I really should.
Instead, I stand frozen, caught in his gaze like a deer in headlights, my heart hammering against my ribs. Something shifts in the air between us. A tension that wasn't there before, or maybe was there all along but neither of us had acknowledged it.
His hand rises slowly and gently tucks a damp strand of hair behind my ear.
His fingertips barely graze my skin, but the contact sends sparks cascading down my spine.
For a second, I think he might close the distance between us entirely, and more startling than his proximity is the realization that I want him to.
Something flickers in his eyes. Awareness, perhaps, of how close we stand to a line neither of us is ready to cross. He takes a small step back, though it seems to cost him considerable effort. His hand falls away from my face, but the warmth of his touch lingers.
"If I stay any longer," he says, his voice a low rumble that I feel more than hear, "I might forget all the reasons why I shouldn't stay."
The raw emotion in his words steals my breath. We're caught in an impossible space. Whatever this is between us, it's dangerous for both of us.
He reaches for the door handle, breaking the spell. "Goodnight, Astrid Mathieson," he says softly. "Sleep well."
And then he's gone, the door closing quietly behind him, leaving me standing in my entryway with the ghost of his breath still warm on my skin and the lingering scent of beef stew and freshly baked bread in the air.
I press a hand to my neck where he almost—but didn't quite—touch me, wondering what the hell just happened. Wondering why I let it happen. Wondering why, despite everything I know, everything I've been trained to do, I'm already hoping he'll come back.
"I am so screwed," I whisper to my empty apartment, and head for the shower.