by Olivia Arran
My wolf growled inside my head, her hackles up and teeth bared. Without thinking, I slid my arm around his waist, sliding my hand under his T-shirt and curling my fingers into the waistband of his jeans.
The look he shot me was startled, and clearly asked what the hell was going on, but he didn’t remove my arm, or resist, instead looping his arm about my shoulders and pulling me in tighter. “Is this what I think it is?” he asked in a low murmur.
“And what do you think this is?” I hissed back, keeping the smug smile firmly on my face as the woman sailed past, her hopes dashed and firmly put in her place.
“A pissing contest.”
“You did notice her!”
His arm around my shoulders tightened, halting my retreat. “I saw her, sure, but I didn’t notice her.”
This time I did manage to pull away.
He frowned at me, pulling a face of mock misery. “Hey, I’m feeling a little used, here.”
“Don’t worry, you get used to it,” I muttered, lengthening my stride in a bid to reach my destination that much faster. Reaching the store, I yanked open the door.
He grabbed it at the last second, saving it from smashing into the wall. He didn’t need to say anything, his eyebrows doing the talking.
Ignoring him I stormed into the store, circling the merchandise with a predatory air.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw him take a step, then falter, his mouth setting into a straight line that told me nothing.
Plucking out a garment at random, I held it up. “What do you think?”
He swallowed, his throat working and Adams apple bobbing.
“What about this one?” I brandished another hanger in the air. Come on…
Then his face broke into a sly smile. “Are you sure they’re the right size?” His eyes flashed down to my chest, and stayed there as he continued to talk, “I’m pretty sure you need to go up at least two more cup sizes, though I’d be more than happy to help you with the measuring. Just to make sure.”
The lacy garments in my hand trembled under his scrutiny, his hungry appreciation for my curves obvious for anyone to see.
“Can I help you?” a voice asked from behind me.
I spun around, a little off balance. It wasn’t working.
“Oh, he’s right, honey. You need to go up at least two cup sizes, possibly three.” The saleswoman clucked her tongue at me.
Now there were two people staring at my chest.
“I like this one, sweetheart,” he drawled, plucking a bra and panties off a rail, the set more sheer than fabric, and decorated with thin strips of red silk. He turned to the saleswoman, ignoring the croak that came out of my mouth, “Does this one come in her size?”
“I’ll go and check for you.” The older woman half sighed, half sang her reply, giving Greg one last lingering look, then plucked the completely inappropriate lingerie out of his hand and set off toward the back of the store.
I was pretty sure she even put an extra roll into her hips.
The stutter died on my lips as I caught sight of the look he was giving me. “What?”
He folded his arms over his chest, stretching today’s obscure band logo tight. “Lingerie?”
I stuck out my chin. “A girl has needs.” At his arched eyebrow, I blathered on, “Many different and varied needs. Sometimes including lace. And other stuff.” My eyes flew around the room, landing on a shelf in the corner. It was too late. I couldn’t drag my eyes away from the discreet arrangement of toys, each more fascinating and peculiar than the one before.
His gaze followed mine and I wished for the floor to open up so I could sink into it and die.
Baby blue eyes darkened, a low growl thundering out of his chest. “Sweetheart, you only have to say the word and I’ll take care of those needs for you.”
Chapter Ten
Scarlett
“Here are two sizes for you to try.”
Saved by the saleswoman, I grabbed the lingerie out of her hands and darted toward the changing rooms at the back of the store, cheeks still burning.
He wouldn’t dare try and come back here … would he? A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed he had followed me, but stopped just outside the entrance to the back rooms, giving me his back.
Relief flooding me, I tugged the curtain across the opening, hooking the hangers onto a convenient rail. Two seconds later I had my fingers hooked over the top of the cubicle and was swinging my leg over. Dropping down into a crouch, I repeated the process as swiftly and silently as possible, grateful for the soft music piping out through the speakers, muffling any chance of him hearing my footfalls. Adjacent to the last cubicle ran a small corridor, leading to the stock room. Which led to the back door. Something I already knew, as this happened to be one of my favorite stores to frequent when I visited the city.
“Are you okay in there?” the saleswoman trilled.
Swallowing back a surge of panic, I pulled myself up the last wall, flinging myself over the top, then sprinted down the corridor.
A curtain being drawn back sounded behind me, a muffled grunt of surprise, then heavy footsteps.
Bolting toward the door, I reached for the handle. Please don’t be locked.… It flew open and I burst outside. Putting on a burst of speed, I ran through the back street, darting around the corner, up another street, into another, around another corner, threading through pedestrians, then into a small fabric store, closing the door with a click behind me. Heart pounding and breath coming out in stuttered gasps, I forced myself to circle to the window, peeking out from behind a tall display of thread.
Greg stood in the street, his head swinging back and forth, shoulders bunched up and back ramrod stiff. A scowl twisted his mouth, his brow furrowed and eyes distinctly pissed off.
But he didn’t see me. Didn’t walk over to the door and throw it open.
“Can I help you?” The woman’s voice behind me was timid and a little bit freaked out.
“Do you have a back door I could use?”
A hesitation, a long assessment, then, “Of course, honey. This way.”
I followed her behind the counter and into the back, pausing by the door she pushed open. “Thank you.”
The woman nodded at me, adjusting her glasses as she stared at me. “No problem at all.”
I slipped out, her hand landing on my shoulder causing me to pause.
“If he comes in asking, I’ll tell him nothing.”
She thought I was running from a bad man. Shame welled up inside of me for tarring Greg with that brush, but I pushed it away. It wouldn’t help; I was doing what I had to do. Giving her a grateful smile, I didn’t correct her assumption, slipping away until I found a crowd to melt into.
I didn’t need his protection; hadn’t asked for it. I’d only wanted a place to stay, to think, to figure out what I needed to do next. And I’d decided. There was only one option, and it didn’t involve one sexy, controlling, alpha wolf who couldn’t make up his damn mind.
Chapter Eleven
Greg
Why had she run? The thought circled in my mind, until I couldn’t think of anything else. Scanning the street, I slowed my breathing, reaching for calm. She was here, I could sense her eyes on me. Feel her watching me. People moved around me, some with purpose, others drifting aimlessly through their short lives. Car horns blared in the distance, heels clicked on the sidewalk, cell phones rang and voices flowed. The melodic symphony that was the city. But no Scarlett.
She was moving.
I sensed someone to the left. I eyed the small store sandwiched between two glass buildings. A woman stared out at me—not Scarlett. She scurried away. I scanned the neighboring buildings. A movement caught my eye.
A hand flipping the store sign to closed.
In the middle of the day.
Bingo.
Breaking into a run, I barreled down the street, cutting between two buildings and out into the back alley. Skidding to a halt, I sniffed the air.
> Why had she run from me? Ignoring the stab of pain, I seized on the faint smell of cherries and smoked paprika floating on the wind, and I was off, my feet barely touching the sidewalk, the wind whipping my face and arms pumping.
People swallowed me, but I didn’t let go, letting my wolf surge forward, tracking her scent. Our mate.
Skidding to a halt, I melted back against a wall, my eyes firmly fixed on a small store in front of me. The store Scarlett had just disappeared into.
Would she pull another disappearing act? My fingers twitched, my legs urging me to circle our prey. No. I was pretty certain she thought she’d lost me.
Why did she run? Because she had something to do; something that didn’t include me. That she didn’t want me to know about. But what? More importantly, why?
I had two options: barge in there and demand answers, or wait and watch. Weighing my options up I decided on the second, after all it was my forte. Watching could sometimes yield more answers than action.
Ten minutes later, I wandered over to a nearby cafe, ordered a coffee and settled in to watch and wait. She was still in there, I could feel it, and I always trusted my instincts when it came to tracking prey. Mulling everything over in my mind, I drilled in on what I already knew. She was running from a man. A man she was determined to protect. The growl forced itself out of my mouth before I had chance to stop it, earning a startled look from a passerby. Clamping down on my wolf, I pushed him back. Now wasn’t the time for instincts; the more delicate touch of human intellect and deduction would be more useful. She’d left her pack; ergo her family. She didn’t want anyone to know, wasn’t asking for any help. She was scared.
Accepting my coffee from the waitress and dismissing her with a glower, I took a sip, the hot liquid scalding my tongue and leaving a bitter aftertaste. I nearly spat it back out, but forced it down with a grimace. Shit coffee. But it gave me an excuse to sit there and stare out into the street.
So, she was running from a man who’d hit her, had left her pack and family behind, was keeping it all a secret, and she was scared. Scared enough that I barely recognized her as the same woman who’d rocked my world. I mean, she still rocked my world, and really, the whole submissive thing should be pushing all my buttons. But it felt wrong, left a sour taste in my mouth. It wasn’t her, and for all my faults—of which there were a metric fuck ton—I’d never tried to make a woman into what I wanted. I just found women who liked what I could give. It made life simple.
I didn’t know enough; this wasn’t going to work. My coffee cup jumped as I slammed a hand down onto the table, liquid splashing over the rim and trickling across the polished wood. Why doesn’t she trust me? Because you’ve done nothing to earn that trust… It wasn’t my wolf that answered, he was in complete agreement with me: take what we want and screw everything else. It was that new voice inside my head, the one whose appearance suspiciously coincided with her arrival.
But, how? I didn’t have to look too far for the answer; the was truth staring me in the face. By not being a controlling asshole.
Picking up the dripping cup, I took a gulp, nearly choking on the swill. I could do that. I mean, I was pretty sure I could. After all, I wasn’t going to claim her as my mate, so I had no right acting like an asshole at all. That side of me shouldn’t have even come out to play. This time, it wasn’t only the coffee leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.
My mind made up, I threw some money down on the table and exited the little patio area.
The door to the store in which she’d disappeared flew open and Scarlett spilled out onto the street. Her eyes widened.
I swallowed back the question forming on my tongue, flashing her an easy smile. “Ready to go home?”
She nodded, a wariness dragging at her eyes.
“Good. Oh, and the coffee’s shit in there. I definitely don’t recommend it as a place for stakeouts.” I threw an evil look at the cafe, earning a startled giggle from her.
Guiding her down the street toward the parking lot, I started up a conversation about her favorite places to visit, drawing more than a few side glances and a scrunched up brow as she tried to figure me out. “No more errands to run?” I enquired casually while fishing my keys out of my pocket.
“No…” she answered, sliding into the passenger seat. She turned to me with a look that said she expected me to lay into her now we were alone, her defenses already up and ready for the attack.
“Buckle up.” Shifting the car into reverse, I backed out of the parking space, swinging around and speeding up the ramp.
“Greg?”
“Uh huh?” Flicking the indicator on, I waited for a gap in traffic, easing the car’s sleek nose out and nudging people out of the way. I could feel her eyes on me, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Dropping the car into second, I gunned the engine, slipping onto the highway and leaving the city behind.
“I’m sorry that I lost you back there.”
“Tried to lose me,” I corrected, keeping my voice level.
“Okay, tried.”
Silence filled the car, and I let it simmer.
“I said, I’m sorry.”
“No problem, let’s forget about it. What do you fancy for dinner? I make a mean pasta.” Flicking on the radio, crooning rock filled the air.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as she sank back into the seat, her head leaning back against the headrest and hands unknotting. “Sound lovely,” she murmured.
“Good. I have a couple of work things I need to do before dinner. Does eight sound okay?”
“Work things?”
“Yeah, the usual kind of stuff.” Like digging up every scrap of information on your old pack.
“Okay. Sounds perfect.”
Chapter Twelve
Scarlett
I glanced at the clock. Another five minutes had passed. That’s it—just five excruciatingly slow minutes. I’d already exhausted my yoga routine, my muscles wonderfully warm and just the right side of sore. Books couldn’t hold my attention, and the television annoyed me. I didn’t have anyone I wanted to call, having already spent half an hour on the phone with my sister. Dodging her questions had been more stressful than I’d ever thought possible.
I could go for a walk? The idea fizzled, falling flat. As flat as my mood. What the hell was wrong with me? I’d done what I needed to do, Greg wasn’t pissed off, I’d had the afternoon to myself, and everything was fine.
And that was the problem. Fine. Bland and boring, not that I’d ever thought I’d catch myself complaining about boring. I’d longed for it. The steady state of complete and utter non-excitement. No surprises. Just … fine. It was over rated, I decided.
I hadn’t seen Greg in hours, not since he’d disappeared upstairs with a mutter about going to work.
The clock crept on, marking another minute.
My loud sigh echoed around the cavernous room, made surprisingly homely with a few rugs dotted around and enough couches to seat a basketball team. The only thing that was missing was a fire blazing in the open hearth, but I couldn’t muster up the energy, or the enthusiasm, to try and light one.
Stretching my legs out, I wriggled my toes, considering swapping the pale coral polish for a pink or red.
“I’m starting dinner now.”
His voice behind me had me jumping and almost tumbling to the floor.
“Sorry. I’ll try and stamp my feet from now on.” Laughter coated his voice, the low rumble of amusement warming, rather than annoying me.
“Can I help at all?” I tried to keep the desperation out of my voice, but he’d have to be deaf to have missed it.
“Sure. You can have a glass of wine and watch, if you really want to?”
I was off the couch and by his side before he’d even finished his sentence, feeling a little like a foolish puppy begging for attention. Following his long legs into the kitchen, I tried, but failed, to keep my eyes off his backside, valiantly trying to ignore the way his ass flexed and cle
nched as the denim hugged and caressed— “Oomph!” I rubbed my nose, which had just bounced off the wall that was his back.
“Scarlett, are you listening to me?” He was peering at me, concern creasing his brow.
My hand dropped back to my side. “Uh, yes. What was it?”
“Do you like seafood?”
An easy question for my muddled mind. Seizing on it gratefully, I nodded.
“Good. I do a fantastic shrimp pasta.”
Accepting a glass of wine, I sank down into a chair, watching as he bustled around the kitchen. He did a good job of giving off the impression that he knew what he was doing. Flour came out, along with eggs and a metal contraption I immediately recognized as a pasta machine. “You’re making it from scratch?” I was immediately embarrassed by the obvious disbelief in my voice.
He paused, giving me a look of mock exasperation that had my insides melting and heart jumping, his hands deftly measuring out flour and cracking eggs.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. My mother named me Gregorio, in honor of my grandfather who was from Italy.” With a fork he whisked the eggs, stirring them into the flour until it was a big, sticky lump.
The small glimpse into his past had me leaning forward in my seat, eager to learn more. I took a sip of wine, the liquid tart and fresh as it slid down my throat. “You don’t have an Italian accent?” My voice rose, turning the statement of what was obvious, into a question.
“Neither does my mother. My grandparents moved to the states when they were young, before my mother was born. I learned how to make pasta as a young pup at my grandmother’s knee.” He spoke with a wistful yearning that he didn’t bother to try and hide.
“You never speak about your family,” I mused, immediately regretting it as his expression darkened. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
He shook his head, molding what was now smooth and firm into a ball. Wrapping it in clingfilm, he tossed it into the fridge. “It’s fine. I don’t like to talk about my family, but I loved my grandparents.”
