Chapter Five
Violet
The ice cream was a triumph, but it’s all downhill from there.
We return to our awkward silences. We eat an awkward dinner, sitting at the table across from each other, barely speaking.
I spend the whole night lying in Dax’s spare room, tossing and turning, replaying every moment of yesterday — the tour, the goats, the bull incident, the feel of his muscles bunching as he held me in his arms.
And the worst part? Every hour that passes, my body seems more convinced that being near him is a requirement for basic survival.
My wolf is pacing under my skin.
My heart is doing percussion solos.
I wake up at sunrise, frustrated. And I am not going to spend my vacation time – because this is a vacation! – in a mood.
If I can just get my Sexy Murder Statue to cheer up, that will make me feel better too.
And what makes everyone happy in the morning?
Pancakes! They’re smiles on a platter. Drusilla and I have made pancakes together several times.
She said my pancakes were delicious. I know they were a little chewy and crispy and maybe they had some black parts, but she loved them.
So did my half-brothers; they ate all of them and assured me they were the best pancakes they’d ever had.
Then it seemed like whenever I wanted to make pancakes, Drusilla suggested we do something else, like sewing or painting, but I pretty much remember how we did it.
So Dax’s kitchen, not surprisingly, reflects his personality.
There’s nothing pretty or fun there. It’s got gleaming metal counters, black wire shelves with glass containers labeled in neat block letters (“PASTA,” “WHITE RICE,” “BLACK RICE”), spice jars lined up in perfect formation.
Absolutely not one decorative object or whimsical mug in sight. How can he live like this?
But after half an hour of hunting down all the ingredients I need, I think I’ve got this. I’m surprised Dax isn’t awake yet, so I need to move fast.
Another half hour drifts by, and hoo boy, I’m going to have a lot of cleanup to do.
Flour dusts the counter in a light snowfall. A mixing bowl lies on its side, dribbling lumpy batter onto the stovetop. One pancake has somehow adhered itself vertically to the cabinet door.
But it’s okay, I have my first pancakes cooking in a pan.
For some reason they’re smoking. Wait. What did I forget?
Is that pan non-stick? How can you tell? Should I have melted butter first?
The smoke is billowing now. The kitchen is filled with black, acrid smoke and my eyes and nostrils are stinging.
BEEEEEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
The smoke alarm erupts like the kitchen is under missile attack.
“Nononono! Stop it! Be quiet!” I snatch up a dish-towel and wave it wildly at the smoke. I’m pretty sure that makes it worse.
And that is when Dax appears.
He bursts out of the hallway in nothing but boxer briefs, hair rumpled, eyes wild and predatory. He finds me elbow-deep in pancake carnage.
“Violet?” he demands, his tone thick with urgency. “Are you hurt?”
My emotions, which have been simmering at a low boil for hours, suddenly erupt.
“I—I was trying to make you breakfast!” I shout over the alarm.
He snatches the pan off the stove, hurries to the front door, and tosses it outside. He leaves the door open, then hurries back inside and opens kitchen windows. The smoke alarm finally shuts off.
The moment the alarm dies, the silence is somehow worse.
Dax turns back to me, chest rising and falling, pupils blown wide. Then he crosses the space between us in two long strides and grabs my shoulders—not hard, but tight enough that I can feel his hands shaking.
“How could you do this?” His voice is a low, raw growl. “If anything happened to you—”
“I know, I know,” I blurt miserably, blinking fast. “My father would be furious at your pack and it would be a diplomatic disaster—”
“The hell with your father.”
His voice cracks. Actually cracks.
“It would destroy me.”
My breath catches…and then his mouth is on mine.
It isn’t a kiss so much as a claiming, all heat and urgency. His lips crush against mine and I melt into him, hands grabbing his bare shoulders because if I don’t hold on I will fall.
I’ve kissed men before. A couple. Nice boys. Gentle boys. But this—this is what a kiss is meant to be. This is delicious heat, a devouring. My entire body lights up, my nerves singing with arousal.
And then, he jerks back like he’s been burned.
His breathing is ragged. His eyes look wrecked.
“Forget I did that,” he rasps. “Forget everything I just said.”
Forget it? How can I forget it the moment that will be tattooed on my soul forever?
My heart lurches, splintering.
And then the worst thing happens. My vision blurs, my throat tightens, and I know I’m going to cry.
Absolutely not. I will not embarrass myself even further.
So I do the only thing my panicking, humiliated brain can think of.
I shift.
It rips through me, my bones stretching, my skin shimmering, heat rolling over my body. My wolf explodes outward, all white fur and instinct and instinctive flight.
Before he can say a word, I bolt.
I launch out the front door, paws hitting the soft earth, tail streaming behind me. The world blurs into trees and sunlight and humiliation. I run like the forest is on fire, like I can outrun the memory of his mouth on mine, the sound of him telling me to forget it.
I run because if I don’t, the ache in my chest might actually kill me.
And somewhere behind me, Dax roars my name.
But I’m already gone.
Great. Perfect. Excellent coping skills, Violet.
The forest swallows me up, trees blurring past as I run.
I’ve never been truly alone before. I’ve always had guardians. Someone watching.
The Arkansas forest in March is nothing like the tidy, well-ordered packlands I grew up on. It’s wild and a little scary.
Can I do this?
I can do this.
My wolf stifles a whimper.
I think I can do this.
Am I going to die?
I force myself to suck in a deep breath. The air is cool but soft. Last night’s chill still lingers in shady patches, but sunlight spears through the branches in thin, golden shafts that dapple my fur as I weave between the trees.
White oaks and shortleaf pines tower all around me, their branches whispering overhead. Young redbuds flash early splashes of pink. Sweetgum leaves, still small and tender, flutter in the breeze. A few stubborn patches of moss cling to fallen logs, bright green and spongy under my paws.
Birds chatter everywhere—Carolina wrens scolding; cardinals hopping between branches; woodpeckers drumming out a territorial Morse code. Overhead, a red-tailed hawk circles lazily, its cry echoing across the canopy.
I slow down without meaning to.
For the first time in my life, there’s no guardian shadowing my steps. No second set of footsteps. No watchful presence hovering behind me.
The forest smells like damp earth and freedom. I pad across a bed of last autumn’s leaves, every crunch loud in the quiet. Sunlight warms my back. A breeze ruffles through my fur. I stop and lift my head, drinking it all in.
Alone. Unprotected. Unmonitored.
And I like it.
A little thrill skitters through me. I wander deeper, slower now, letting the forest guide me instead of racing through it. Letting myself breathe for the first time in years. Letting myself exist without anyone hovering or warning or controlling.
For a few long, precious minutes…I feel like the world finally, finally belongs to me.
And then— A shape moves ahead.
A bear. A real, actual bear.
Not a shifter. Not friendly. Not rational. Just big, furry, and looking at me with a little too much interest. I’m in danger now, I’m alone, because I’m an idiot, and a bear is going to kill me and Dax will get in so much trouble for it.