Keeping My Pack

by Lane Whitt

  “Looks like that’s you, Bro. I’m taking Kitten with me to the gallery.” Reed says to a still sleepy looking Kellan.

  “Alright, I better get to it then. You know Tristan can get, today is his diva day.” Kellan rolls his eyes. He starts for the door before pausing and coming back to me. “May I?” He asks with his face in front of mine.

  I nod my head, leaning up to make it easier for him. He gives me a lingering kiss with his soft, pouty lips. It’s like kissing pillows.

  “So this is your gallery?” I ask as Reed helps me out of Finn’s orange truck.

  “Yeah, it’s one of the businesses that I own. They found a couple of new artists while I was gone, and want me to take a look at their work.” Reed shrugs. “I figured today would be a good a day as any since we’re closed for the holiday.”

  We walk along the sidewalk of a quaint looking strip mall. The shop he leads me to has a wall made entirely of glass and through it I can see all kinds of things. Reed pulls out his keys and unlocks the glass door, allowing me to enter first.

  On the ceiling are different light fixtures, none of them matching, including a hanging light, made entirely of spoons. The walls are lined with every shape and size paintings, some of them heartbreaking, some silly ones, but each of them beautiful. In between each painting is a pedestal with a sculpture sitting atop of it, they vary in material and color, and I hope I have time to study every detail of each one.

  He takes my hand and leads me around a corner where there are smaller paintings, a few sketches and lots of framed photos. A long counter sits in the back of the space, and I think that’s where we’re headed, but Reed leads me around the table and opens a door that matches the dark hardwood floors throughout the space.

  We step around a few shelves, and Reed holds out a chair for me to sit in at a high table at the back of the room. I climb into the chair and watch him as he digs around on a shelf.

  “Here we go,” He says as he brings a big black folder with him to sit across from me at the table.

  “So what are we doing?” I ask.

  “We’re going to look through this young man’s portfolio and see if he’s created anything we’d like to sell here in the shop. The manager I hired here said he saw some promising works, but I insist on having the final say.” He flips through the first page and shakes his head. From where I’m sitting, I can’t see, and it’s bugging me.

  I slide from my chair and walk around to Reed. I kick off my shoes and scoot his chair back.

  “What are you doing?” Reed smiles at me curiously.

  I hop up on the bottom rung of the chair and climb into his lap, sliding the black book closer to me. “I couldn’t see.”

  Reed laughs loudly at that and scoots us closer to the table, placing his head right next to mine so we can both look at the pictures.

  We take our time going over each photo of different paintings. I wish we had the real things in front of us. I want to run my fingers over the painting and follow each brush stroke that this haunted young man created. I want to ask him what was behind each movement. Was it pain? Was it anger? Sadness or frustration?

  Somehow I managed to take control over the page turning and after the third time flipping through it, Reed lays his hand over my own. Stopping me.

  “What do you think?” He asks me slowly.

  I chew my lip, taking in the picture we stopped on before meeting his eyes. “These pictures make me curious about the artist, about his motivation behind them. I know why I draw, and I wonder if it’s the same for other people,” I tell him.

  Reed chews on his bottom lip as he thinks about it. “I’ve met a lot of artists in my time, some good, and some not so good. From my experience, the best ones are the ones who can channel emotion into their work. Not always, as some people just have a god given talent and can create anything, but most of the time I have found this to be true.”

  I nod, letting him know I’m listening and encouraging him to continue.

  “Some people can only channel certain emotions, such as anger or pain, doing their best works when they are feeling those emotions. For some, like me for instance, strong feelings of any emotion can be used as fuel for art.”

  “Like this guy,” I say quietly as I trace the edge of the photo and look back to the book.

  “I’d have to agree with you there, as his portfolio shows good range. I’m not as impressed with his ‘happy’ works as I am with the rest, but he’s talented none the less.”

  I tilt my head at him before flipping through the book once more. When I reach the end, I stare at Reed a moment, wondering what he’s talking about. “What happy pictures?”

  Reed brushes my hand out of the way and flips to the front, stopping on a collection of three photos, the ones I like best.

  “These aren’t bad, but they are pretty generic scenes. Kids playing on a playground, a man and woman sharing an embrace, a father and son facing away, staring at a baseball field. These are probably just memories from the artist’s childhood that he enjoyed and wanted to paint.” Reed explains.

  My head is shaking even before I speak. “But these are sad pictures.”

  “Why do you say that? They seem like the quintessential, picturesque scenes that litter the art world.” He states, eyes combing the pictures for something he may have missed.

  I point to the first picture. “If you’ll notice, the sun is actually shining down on the kids playing, but the rest of the scene is painted in gray. The branches here on the side aren’t from a tree; they’re from a bush, and the angle is wrong for it to be someone in a tree. The onlooker is hiding. And the tall kid isn’t playing with the short one, look at the short kid’s feet and arms; he’s preparing himself for a fall. My guess is the tall kid is a bully, and the onlooker was hiding from him.”

  Reed nods his head slowly but doesn’t say anything, so I point to the second picture. “The man and woman are embracing, but it’s a goodbye, not a hello. The painting is blurry; my guess is to signify tears, not rain, though the window pane does have raindrops on it, but if you look through the window of the black car in the background, the artist has painted a driver’s cap on a man behind the wheel. The woman’s hand is wrapped around the man’s wrist. So, the onlooker’s father is leaving and the woman, the onlooker’s mother, is pleading with him not to.”

  “Right, right,” Reed says more to himself than to me.

  “The third picture isn’t real, or well, not a real memory. Where some people might see the shading as a beautiful sunset behind the baseball field after a game well played, and the father and son are basking in the memory, what I see is the artist adding a dream-like quality to the picture. Notice that the father is painted wearing the same clothing as the goodbye picture? And since that man is clearly the same man used before and is standing with a child, and you can’t see yourself, I have to imagine that this painting is a dream that the artist had about his father that abandoned him coming to one of his games.”

  Reed turns his head and smiles brightly at me. “Huh, I guess I forgot the first rule of art.” He says and then chuckles deeply.

  “And what’s that?” I ask.

  “That all art is subjective. I still see the happy side of these paintings, but now that you pointed out certain details, I can understand what you are saying, too. Is that why you kept flipping back to this page?” He asks.

  “Yeah, I really like them. And I like that there are two sides to them. It’s almost like he was trying to paint what people see and what they want to see.” I try and explain. The truth is, I don’t know why I like them, I just do.

  Reed grips me around the waist and flips me around until I’m facing him with one leg on either side of his.

  “I know you’ve been through a lot, and I promised myself I wouldn’t rush you but talking art with you is so damn hot. Can I kiss you, Kitten? Is that too much, too fast?” Reed asks, his voice bordering on pleading.

  I place my arms around his neck and move cl
oser to him. “I love you, Reed. You never need to ask for kisses.”

  With my permission given, Reed loses all semblance of control as his warm lips press against mine. His tongue flicks out to lick at the seam of my mouth, and I open for him. My body goes warm all over as his taste invades my mouth as his hands travel over my back and under my shirt.

  I gasp for breath when we break apart and stare up into his amazing eyes, fascinated as his irises change from blue to green to gold and mixtures in between.

  “I love you too, Kitten. I’m pretty sure I have since I first met you and positively sure since I first kissed you outside of the bathroom.”

  I blink at him. “Wait; you meant to do that?”

  Reed huffs out a laugh. “Of course, I did. Did you think it was an accident this whole time?”

  I bite my lip and shrug. “I figured it was either an accident or a pity kiss,” I answer.

  “Well then, let me show you just how un-accidentally I want to kiss you.” He says before bringing his mouth to mine once more.

  I allow myself to get lost in Reed. In his kiss, in his arms, in the passion I feel from him. Reed may be quiet; he may be my sad boy, but when he feels something, he feels it so strongly, so intensely that it’s easy to get caught up with him.

  He tugs my shirt up, his eyes seeking permission. I raise my arms in answer, and he sweeps it off of me in one fluid motion. His kisses move from my mouth down the side of my neck. The sensation makes me moan, and Reed bucks his hips up in answer. Every inch of my being suddenly becomes fixated on how good that felt between my legs.

  I rock my hips forward and press back into him, and this time, he’s the one moaning. His hands go my waist, and he helps guide me back and forth over him as he uses his teeth to move my bra strap out of the way and his skilled tongue works over the flesh of my exposed shoulder and collarbones.

  I tug on the back of his shirt, wanting my own free reign of his skin. He leans forward and helps me get his shirt over his head. I toss it aside and run my hands over his smooth chest, taking pleasure in the rumble I extract from him. Reed is slim, but each one of his muscles are clearly defined. I take my time admiring his lean and cut body and find myself thanking any god who’s listening for yoba.

  “Kitten, please.” Reed begs. “I need…” He releases a deep breath. “If it’s not too much to ask.”

  I cut him off. “Ask anything, Reed,” I say, dragging my eyes away from his chest and up to his eyes.

  He keeps his eyes on mine but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he shifts me back a little and unbuttons his jeans. My eyes fall to his hands, but he pauses to lift my chin up. He kisses me softly, hesitantly, like he’s asking for permission through his lips. I meet his tongue with mine and feel his hand guiding one of mine from around his neck to place it between us. I feel something hard yet incredibly soft in my hand, like metal covered in velvet.

  Reed gasps for air and we both vibrate with his deep moan. He guides my fingers to close around the object and moves it up and down. On an upstroke, I feel moisture, and it helps lessen the friction on the way back down. Reed moves his hand away from mine, and I continue on my own.

  “Oh, yes baby. Just like that. Keep doing that.” He whispers hotly.

  I feel his hands on my back for a mere moment before my bra drops from my chest. Reed’s eyes darken as he takes me in and I use his moment of distraction to look at where my hand is. My eyes go wide for a moment in wonder as I see what I’m holding. I figured as much, but seeing is an entirely different matter. Knowing I am touching him so intimately excites me, and my hands reflexively squeeze. I hear his breath catch, and then he’s on me.

  His kiss starts at my lips but quickly moves downward. He flicks my nipple with this tongue and my whole body jolts in shock and pleasure. That climbing feeling that I’ve felt before starts and I bring my other hand around him as well, just to feel like I have something to hold onto.

  With his hands now free, Reed takes my other breast in one hand while his mouth takes turns sucking and licking my hardened bud. His other hand snakes between us and presses on my core through my pants. The repeated movement of his hands and mouth push me higher and higher until I’m falling, going over that unseen edge and shouting out my pleasure. I feel Reed’s body tense before warm liquid coats my stomach and my hands.

  I remain in a dazed state of bliss until Reed places a hand over mine, stopping my stroking motion that I didn’t realize I was still doing.

  “Babe…” He cooed, kissing my shoulder before resting his head there for a moment. He turns his head and licks at the heated flesh of my neck. “I love you, Kitten. I am yours, now and forever.” He says passionately.

  “I love you too, Reed,” I say with a smile before kissing his lips once more.

  After we had spent lots more time kissing, he had dragged us to the floor so we could regain our wits and catch our breath. We cuddled and nuzzled, but words were not needed. My skin tingled wherever our skin met, and I explored this lazily, feeling content to lie here for the rest of the day.

  “Mmm, this makes touching you even more fun,” Reed says after an unmeasured amount of time has passed. “C’mon Kitten, let’s get cleaned up and head home.”

  He helps me wash off all the stickiness in the washroom, and I laugh as he shakes out his wet hair after a dip under the faucet. The long locks flicking water all over me.

  “You ready to go?” He asks me.

  I nod and take his hand in mine. As he’s locking up the gallery behind us, I nudge his shoulder with mine to get his attention. “Hey, Reed?”

  “Yes, Kitten?”

  “We should talk art more often,” I say with a sly grin worthy of Logan.

  Reed beams a smile back at me. “Oh, I plan on talking art with you as much as possible from now on.”

  With a wink from him and a brief smack to my bottom, we climbed into Finn’s truck and made our way home.

  My mouth was watering long before we reached the door to the house. Whatever Tristan was making was filling the air with the most delicious of smells. The local shelter always had really nice turkey dinners for the holiday, and even I didn’t pass them up. I can only wonder how much better Tristan’s dinner would be, if I could eat it.

  I frown at the thought, wishing eating was as easy as it used to be.

  “You’re late.” Tristan accused as he came toward us. I offer him a smile that says sorry, but not sorry.

  “I don’t mind that you went out, but you didn’t leave any time for you to eat before we sat down altogether.” He tells me.

  I pout, knowing I’m going to have smell all of the yummy food for a while before I can have any. Oops.

  Dinner is served at the kitchen island instead of the dining room. I never told them the details about what happened with uncle, but I suspect that’s why they only eat in here now.

  To my displeasure, Maksim and Albert are seated around the island as well.

  “Glad you two could make it.” Remy jokes, giving Reed a playful evil eye. I wave at him as I take my seat at a spot left open next to Jace and Logan.

  A loud clattering makes me jump, and my eyes dart to Maksim. “She’s carrying more than scent now?! When did this happen? Was it forced? Did they force you?” He asks the last of me, but I just look at him like the crazy person he’s turned into.

  “Uh…no?” I answer, looking to Remy to see his face turning a scary shade of red.

  “This is not proper! One does not play around with the bonding of wolves, especially an Ivaskov!” He exclaims.

  I rub at my forehead with the palm of my hand, my headache back in full force and now traveling down my spine to make my back hurt. “Can we just stop with all the Ivaskov stuff? Please?” I say tiredly.

  “Excuse me?” Maksim huffs.

  I turn my attention to him, meeting eyes so much like my own. “You know, the whole Ivaskov’s are better than everyone else thing? No one is better than anyone else, and with the little knowledge I h
ave of your family, I’d have to say that you don’t have much to brag about.”

  Maksim sits back in his chair slowly, just staring at me in horror. “Our family.” He states.

  “What?” I ask, not understanding.

  “The Ivaskov’s are our family; you’re part of it. And uniting the wolf packs, forming a government that brought peace to our kind and enabled us to thrive not only as wolves but in the human society as well is not something I should take pride in? Our family were conquerors, peace-bringers, innovators, world-renowned scientists, and leaders, the hell if I won’t be proud of that! You should as well, young lady.” He chastises.

  I sigh heavily, looking down at the empty plate in front of me. “Were,” I say.

  “What was that?” He asks, maybe not hearing me because I spoke so lowly.

  “I said, were. As in, once upon a time, your family were all of those things. Now, though, it’s just a name. Your family has turned into a bunch of bullies that experiment with the lives of children, abduct and humiliate and attempt to murder, who only come to the aid of family for what you can get out of them and what they can do for you. And by the way, my family is seated around this table, excluding two of you.” I throw out as I push my chair back and stomp from the room.

  I’m no mood to listen to him go on about how great and honorable his family is. To quote Finn, actions speak louder than words. And so far, his family’s actions have done nothing but tear my world apart, time and time again.

  I hear feet pounding on the ground behind me, but I don’t bother to look who it is. I know the guys are following me and will probably try to comfort me. I don’t want comfort right now though, so I hold my hand up, asking them to stay back. I head out the back door and down the steps of the deck, and out into the yard where Reed and I do yoba.

  The weather has turned colder since I was away, but right now, the chill in the air is a welcome balm to the fire I feel in my heart. The grass is crisp as I take a seat, preparing for the beautiful spectacle mother nature greets the world with each evening. The clouds have turned shades of pink, yellows and blues, cast about like a lost painter. I feel eyes on me from behind, and somehow I just know that the entire dinner party has followed me out here. I sigh, plucking at the grass in front of me. They should have just stayed and had their meal, waiting for me to eat is pretty pointless these days.