Slip of Fate (Werelock Evolution Book 1)

by Hettie Ivers

  I was still at a loss as I heard the closet door click shut behind him. But I shook it off and scrambled to my feet, my hands shaking as I pulled open the top drawer of the dresser to verify he wasn’t pulling my leg. I wanted to cry all over again when I found my phone, iPad, and passport all present and accounted for. I powered my cell and iPad on and was further surprised to find they were both fully charged and that no files appeared to have been deleted. Neither device had a signal of course, but that was to be expected.

  Upon opening my suitcase, I did shed tears, as I was assaulted by all the glorious scents of home: my room, my things … my mom. I noted that many of my clothes were missing, though I soon located them inside the next several drawers of the dresser.

  I pulled an expertly folded, favorite white henley of mine from one of the drawers and brought it to my nose. It smelled of both Alex and home—an odd combination my presently sensitive sense of smell found disturbingly pleasant. I decided not to overanalyze my decision to wear it anyway. I pulled on a pair of comfy jeans as well before slipping on sandals.

  Passing by a wall of mirrors along what I hoped was the right way out of the closet, I caught my reflection and was startled to a halt by what I saw. My hair was a wild fright and my eyes and face were a little swollen and blotchy from crying, but otherwise, I looked good. Crazy good, in fact! Bizarrely, inexplicably healthy and robust looking for someone who’d just cheated death.

  And while I felt famished, I was perplexed to see I didn’t appear to have lost any weight. I’d always been the type to drop a pound if I so much as skipped lunch, and I’d eaten next to nothing since arriving.

  I raked shaky fingers through my hair in a vain attempt to straighten and detangle it as best I could rather than go back to my bag and retrieve a hairbrush in order to do the task properly. I didn’t want Alex thinking I gave a hoot what I looked like around him.

  Certainly I was not interested in enticing him—or his creepy, albeit fantastic-smelling, wolf.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I was grateful I’d had the good sense to change out of my pajamas as we made our way downstairs. Alex hadn’t even bothered to put a shirt or shoes on. Though he’d indicated most of the house was sleeping, we passed not less than two dozen guards in human form, and a dozen or so more in their wolf form, before we even arrived at the elevator bank. Any fantasies I’d entertained about the possibility of escape were immediately squashed.

  I hadn’t wanted to hold Alex’s hand when he’d first offered it as we exited the hallway outside of his bedroom, which had then led to another exit from his private quarters, but I now found myself gripping his hand and following closely at his side as I resisted the urge to clutch onto his arm with my other hand.

  These wolves were huge! And I found their forms equally scary, whether Cujo or human.

  I breathed a little easier once we were inside the elevator, only two bulky guards accompanying us on the ride down. Alex squeezed my hand several times in reassurance, but the message never quite seemed to reach my runaway nerves. Compounding my trepidation was the sickening realization that they were all plainly terrified of Alex. I could smell the fear and tension permeating the air, surrounding and following us as we went.

  I was walking hand in hand with a bad guy. I probably looked just like one of those dopey-eyed gangster film girlfriends to everyone—the kind you feel sorry for because you know she’s bound to wind up dead before the end of the film—either at the hands of her mob boss boyfriend or his enemies. I fancied myself an anxious wreck by the time we reached the kitchen.

  There were a handful of kitchen workers in white uniforms milling about, some idly chatting while others appeared to be engaged in more productive activities in preparation for the day. Regardless, the calm air of gaiety we walked in on was irrevocably shattered as we were greeted with reactions ranging from horrified disbelief to complete meltdown panic. I had a sinking suspicion Alex didn’t frequent the kitchen area much, and seeing the desperate expressions on the kitchen workers’ faces made me feel terrible for being the reason for his visit.

  I hid behind Alex’s shoulder, wanting to disappear as effusive apologies in foreign languages flew out from every direction. A few firm, silencing words in Portuguese from Alex followed, and everyone instantly scattered, leaving just one fretful-looking young man remaining in the enormous kitchen with us.

  He and Alex exchanged words in Portuguese, and then the man began dashing about gathering cookware and ingredients, assembling them all together onto a nearby metal food prep counter next to an industrial-sized gas cooktop. Upon finishing, the man swiftly fled from the kitchen.

  Once alone with Alex, I realized how much I longed to be able to escape him now as the kitchen workers had. And to my mortification, I also realized that I had at some point taken to clutching his forearm with my other hand when Alex turned and teasingly asked me over his shoulder if he could have it back, saying something about needing it for cooking.

  I released his arm like it was on fire, muttering some shaky, effusive apologies of my own. He spun around, a deep scowl marring his forehead.

  “What’s wrong?” His keen eyes scanned up and down my person, searching for injury. “What happened?”

  I found it remarkable how he could be so in tune with me sometimes, even when he wasn’t interloping on my thoughts, while other times he was hopelessly clueless.

  “Did someone do something to upset you?” he demanded. “Look at you the wrong way?”

  Ha! Was he for real? I was certain none of them had dared look at me at all! I swallowed, speechless, as I shook my head continuously at him.

  He hefted me by the waist and set me down atop a metal food prep counter, moving to stand between my knees and cupping my face in both hands.

  “Milena, I’m about to enter your mind in order to slow your heart rate if you can’t calm yourself down and tell me what the fuck just happened in the next thirty seconds.”

  Now that he’d mentioned it, I noted my heart did sound like it was beating a bit fast. At least in my head—imagination, rather, it sounded like it was probably beating too fast. Crap, I was losing it.

  “Milena?” Alex prompted, eyeing me with obvious concern.

  “You scare everyone!” I blurted.

  He seemed puzzled by my assertion. “So?”

  “So … so those guards were big … and scary-looking … and really big …” I rambled, “and … and they were scared of you.”

  He raised one brow, tucking some errant strands of hair behind my left ear. “So you’d rather a lot of big, scary-looking guards weren’t scared of me? That’d make you feel safer?”

  “No … maybe … I don’t know …” I faltered as my own brows joined in consternation. Alex seemed to be putting forth a valiant effort to curb his mounting frustration. He tipped my face up to meet his scrutiny as I continued to babble nonsensically, “I mean … no … probably not … I don’t know …”

  “Just tell me what’s wrong, Milena.”

  Shit, what wasn’t wrong? I heard my heart rate kick up another notch. I knew Alex had heard it too. I could sense his stress, his level of concern rising despite his composed façade.

  “I can hear my own heartbeat! And I was smelling everyone’s fear the whole walk to the kitchen. I’m that clichéd gangster girlfriend who gets killed!” I exclaimed out of left field.

  “Okay, o-kay,” he whispered, his long fingers slipping into the hair at the base of my skull to comb back and forth. “I need you to dial it down a notch so I can make sense of all this.” His voice was kind. I could tell he was trying to hold onto his non-existent patience for me. “Think you can do that?”

  I considered it, then shook my head in the negative.

  “May I then? If you’ll refrain from fighting me, I can be in and out before you know it.”

  I nodded, wanting him to just fix it for me. I didn’t think I was capable of relaxing on my own at this point, as I felt on the verge of somethi
ng akin to a panic attack. Though truthfully, I wasn’t exactly sure what one of those was.

  I never felt his entry, but a blessed wave of calm enveloped me, and I released a long sigh as the tension eased from my body. I listened contentedly as my heartbeat steadily slowed to normal. I sagged forward into him and allowed my eyes to shut as he drew me closer, his arms wrapping around me, his hand burying in my hair and holding me in place where my cheek pillowed against his smooth, solid chest.

  “That’s better,” he approved, exhaling a tension-filled breath of his own, “so much fucking better.”

  I had to agree. It was so much better. I felt great. So completely relaxed. Safe. Whole.

  Whole? Safe? With sick fascination I realized I hadn’t minded allowing him access to my head just now. I’d welcomed it! And it felt oddly … natural having him control my heart rate. Fuck me, I was suffering Stockholm syndrome already.

  I reasoned my brain was simply confused because he’d asked permission before entering this time, thus providing me a false sense of safety and control over the situation. But perhaps I’d grown dangerously accustomed to relying on his presence in my head during my recovery over the last day and a half? Maybe … just maybe hearing and feeling him inside my head had comforted me far more than I wanted to admit it had. Either way, it was bad. Wrong on multiple levels.

  “I can get out now if you’d like?”

  My stomach fluttered. Guilt clawed at me as it had before upstairs when I’d cast sanity aside and allowed myself to laugh with him. To delight in the easy, sensual way he’d kissed me. Shoot, had I just thought that aloud?

  I sagely reminded myself I’d wanted to flee from him just moments ago along with his fear-stricken kitchen staff. But my mind was becoming twisted it seemed. I was losing grasp of right and wrong, my sense of normalcy slipping away.

  Because I couldn’t summon up the will to even acknowledge his offer, much less tell him yes, I wanted him to leave my mind now, as I knew I should. Instead, I chose to ignore that he’d spoken altogether, and bask in the calm and safety I was feeling for just a while longer, regardless of how false it may have been.

  We remained in silence like that, his fingers thrumming pleasantly up and down my spine. My ear was pressed to his heart, and I found myself further soothed by the sound and the sensation the steady beat of his life provided as it pulsed against my cheekbone.

  I was now full-on hugging a bad guy. And liking it! To further my dismay, I realized it was one of the best hugs anyone had given me in a long time. The one glaring flaw I found with it was that I wasn’t exactly hugging him back. My hands were folded in against my own stomach, mashed awkwardly between us—a rather lame position for them to be in a hug situation.

  My thoughts wandered to what it might be like to touch Alex—to hug him back, to let my fingers stray across the smooth, bronze skin covering the muscles of his back as he held me.

  “Milena, you have permission to touch me. Now and in the future, anytime you want. Understand?”

  My face heated against his chest at his softly spoken, solemn words, and my eyes flew open. Omigod, I hadn’t meant that the way I’d thought it! I didn’t want to touch him! Not really. It was just something I’d randomly wondered about—just a bit of unfiltered stream-of-consciousness nonsense.

  Fuck, this sort of thing was exactly the reason why it was a terrible idea to ever get comfortable with another person inside your head!

  His chest had begun to quake against my cheek. “Would you like for me to get out now?” he offered again, his voice rich with humor. I nodded against him. Seconds later I felt around for him inside my head and confirmed he was gone.

  “So …”—he kissed the crown of my head—“when were you going to tell me about this gangster boyfriend of yours?”

  I emitted a feeble, awkward chuckle as I recalled making that reference out loud before when I’d been panicking. Alex’s fingers traveled up my spine to massage the back of my neck.

  “Wait … you couldn’t possibly mean me?” he asked with mock incredulity. “Really? Boyfriend and girlfriend so soon?”

  I rolled my eyes at his chest. Ass. As if I were the one insisting on any form of relationship with him whatsoever!

  “Mm … not sure I’m ready for labels,” he pondered aloud, as if considering it. “Never been anyone’s boyfriend before …”

  Dignity urged me to pull away from his embrace and smack him. But dignity warred with the sensation produced by his talented fingers working the tension from my neck, and lost.

  “You move a bit fast for me, princess. ’Fraid I’ve never done well with commitment,” he continued to tease, drawing upon that infinite wellspring of egotistical charm he brandished so readily. “What’s in it for me? Besides you as the ultimate clichéd gangster girlfriend?”

  “You are not funny.”

  “Not supposed to be; I’m the gangster. My job is to scare everyone, remember?” he pointed out, his upper torso shaking with laughter again.

  I made a fist with my right hand that was folded between us and punched it straight into his quaking belly. Ouch.

  He pulled away from me as I hissed and shook my fist out, wincing angrily up at him. “Baby, baby,” he sang, making a pouty expression, “I’m the mean, scary gangster, remember?” He drew my fist to his mouth and kissed my knuckles. “Let me do the hitting.”

  As I opened my mouth to deliver a scathing retort, and to let him know in no uncertain terms that he was the very last man on the planet I’d ever want as my boyfriend, his lips split into one of the sexiest grins I’d seen him wear yet, leaving me feeling like I’d been the one sucker-punched in the gut. I forgot everything I’d meant to say as his tongue came out and licked across my fist.

  In truth, I wasn’t hurt, having only playfully punched him. Yet I let him continue to lick my hand anyway—again and again—because it felt too good to stop him.

  But as my eyes rolled back in enjoyment of the sensation, I started to feel his licks in places I shouldn’t have. Literally feel them. I blinked. Was I going mad? My eyes darted down to my jean-clad legs where I sat on the counter and then back up to Alex’s face.

  “As a ruthless gangster type,” he said against my hand, “I’m going to demand some benefits to go along with this boyfriend label you’ve saddled me with.” His obsidian eyes twinkled mischievously, and as he gave the back of my hand a long, slow lick with the flat of his tongue from my knuckles to my wrist, I swore I felt the exact lick from an imaginary, unseen tongue go straight up the inside of my thigh, at precisely the same speed and pressure, causing my inner leg muscle to jump in response.

  My eyes widened and flew down to my lap again. There was nothing there. Instinctively, my knees tried to press together in self-preservation, but Alex was planted squarely between them against the high countertop, his hips locking them apart.

  I looked back up at Alex, who was smiling behind my hand as the point of his tongue commenced drawing lazy circles against the delicate skin of my inner wrist. I squeaked in the back of my throat when I felt the same lazy tongue circles drawn just a tad too high for decency up my sensitive inner thigh. He chuckled darkly as my eyes darted frantically back and forth from my lap to my wrist.

  “A-Alex?”

  “Hmm?” he hummed, cocking his head at me and pausing in his attention to my wrist. “Too close for comfort?” he asked, his lips curling with amusement. “Or not close enough?”

  I gaped at him in alarm, my face flushing blood red. This seemed to amuse him even more.

  “Think about it and let me know what you decide,” he said with a seductive smile. “’Course, I have my own favorite spots I’ll want to play with as part of my boyfriend benefits …”

  He blew ever so lightly over a tiny expanse of skin upon my damp wrist. To my absolute horror and stupefying pleasure, by some wicked magic I felt the same soft, cool stream of air hit unerringly against my now wet, throbbing bundle of nerves—as if I were naked and intimately sp
read open for him rather than fully clothed, shielded by a layer of jeans and underwear.

  I twitched and an involuntary shudder danced up my spine. I gasped and choked on air, forgetting how to breathe as my abdominal muscles tightened and my inner walls clenched reflexively, my core weeping in shameless, silent entreaty as my clitoris pulsed its own desperate need for more direct attention against the seam of my jeans.

  “Too close?” He squinted sheepishly, patting me on my back when a full-on coughing fit ensued.

  “You are not …” I managed to rasp before succumbing to another choking fit, “my boyfriend!” I batted my fists against his chest, pushing him away when he tried to soothe me. “And you can’t … can’t just do that!” I scolded, scooting as far back as I could on the table in an effort to get away from him, taking care to draw my knees together in the process.

  “You had no right …” I choked and cleared my throat. “It’s not okay!”

  He tried but failed to look repentant as his lips persisted in lifting at the corners despite his best attempt to control his mirth. In a last-ditch attempt to feign contrition, he covered his mouth entirely with his palm and nodded soberly as I continued to rail at him.

  “You always do this! Every time I start to feel like you might be capable of just a little decency, you go and do something … something completely, utterly … dickish!” I accused. “You’re a bully! You terrify your staff, and you make fun of my fears and inexperience—”

  He held his forefinger up. “One sec, babe.” He dashed supernaturally fast to a far corner of the kitchen, disappearing through a glass door and reemerging with a stemmed glass and a bottle of red wine bearing an off-white label.

  “Go on,” he urged as he proceeded to uncork the bottle with the ease of a seasoned waiter. “You were saying something about my dickishness?”

  I groaned in exasperation and shook my head at the ceiling. “Just forget it.”