by Tina Gower
“So, I guess it’s either drinking large quantities of alcohol and passing out cold or fucking. Both of which would result in still dealing with all the emotion after that wears off.”
“Shit,” he says and closes his eyes, unamused. “I should have never taught you about reading body language.” His large palms cover each of my shoulders. He gently guides me back a few feet. “Give me a minute. I’ll eat, go for a run, shower, and then we’ll…talk.”
I pin him with a glare. Wouldn’t it be better to lie in bed together? But I’m not a wolf and he knows best what he needs. I decide to trust him with his own emotions. If I’m honest, being close to him is what I need. This pack thing confuses things in my mind. Makes it difficult to see where he stops and I begin. I step away and let him pass, leaning on my elbows over the sink. There aren’t even any dirty dishes to distract me. Ali must have done them this morning.
Becker’s hand glides along my back. I straighten, unaware he hadn’t run off the first chance he got.
His voice is raspy against my ear. “Are you okay?”
My breath is shallow. The ends of my fingers tingle. “You already know the answer to that,” I say, echoing his own words from earlier. I lower my eyelashes, pulling my hair over my opposite shoulder.
He hesitates. The heat of his palm on my back sears through my shirt. The hairs along my spine vibrate like little divining rods. Becker’s lips are a breath away from my neck. He moves his cheek forward until it rubs mine. “Kate—” he says and it’s laced with pain and yearning and regret.
Shit. I can’t do this. I won’t force him to stay with me. He’s right. We need the space, even if just to collect our thoughts. “Go for your run, Ian. Do what you need to do.”
He’s gone. Off to our room to change and then a soft click at the door to announce his exit.
Gods. I contemplate calling Dalia. I don’t have a clue what to do. But if I call her he’ll hear, and what exactly do I say to Becker’s secret maybe-sister? “Yeah, hey, I’m that girlfriend you were trying to pry Becker away from a few days ago. So, like, tell me everything you know about werewolves and grief and can you make it specific to, you know, the wolves that were experiments? Why do I ask? No reason. Asking for a friend. No, a research paper. Yep, that’s it.”
And then I remember that one of Becker’s dads is a counselor. If I only had his number…
I tug on my hair for another few seconds before settling on working the case. ’Cause it’s not over yet. I dig out the notes from this morning and afternoon, scribbled in a hurry between each meeting. Okay, what do I have?
A huge mess, that’s what. I scan the pages and pages of possibility, whining for a good long prediction. Something I can plug into a formula. Not this guessing people’s motives stuff. Maybe there’s some clue in the blood fever outbreak? I flip to the few lines of hurried information on a napkin from the bar. Michelle gave Ali and me the rundown after we talked her into letting us tag along.
I run down the names of the highest probability blood fever cases in the first projected twenty-four hours. And I’ve only got six names.
There should be seven names.
I count again, unfolding and folding the napkin, even looking under it for that elusive seventh name. There were seven dots on Michelle’s map. That dot was critical in pointing the finger at Talia as the epicenter of the outbreak.
Fuck. Shit. Crap. How could I lose a name? I pull up my laptop, type in my user name and password and it comes up denied. Oh right, I’m on probation. I don’t get to have access to the system. Not that it would help anyway; I’m not assigned to Health. There would be a slight chance the data would be put in a multi-department-wide database. Something as serious as an outbreak, even a small one, might have crossover potential to other predictions. Anyone working on probability in the area or related would need to enter those variables into the formula. It might seem like a huge house of cards, fitting each event into a possibility of potential outcomes, but to us it all makes sense.
Who do I know? I tap my teeth with my fingernail. Hating, oh so much hating, the fact that Kyle is my only option. He knows about the case. I can’t leak the information to anyone else.
I shoot him a quick email.
Got a few questions about a case. Do you still have the same number?
There. That’s good. Vague. If anyone intercepted it, they’d get nothing. And I could text him the questions when he responded.
There. Fine. Remembering the huge stack of files I saw in Becker’s car, I jog out there to rescue them. I could go through those, too. Might as well. The box is light enough, but it’s still awkward maneuvering it. I prop it on my hip for support, noticing my mail Ali retrieved. I toss that in as well.
Going back inside, I shut the door by kicking it with my foot and heft the box onto the kitchen counter, pulling out mail and files with about as much finesse as a construction worker tearing down a wall with a crowbar. I come across a manila envelope, an order. Something I ordered from online? Oh right.
A smile creeps onto my face, slowly at first, and then all at once. When Becker first introduced handcuffing himself to the bed, I’d resisted. It seemed extreme. Harsh. Unnecessary. But then he’d mentioned that he’d been reading a book and suggested I read it too.
I’d looked up the book he’d mentioned; it was the only other book by the same author of another book I’d read when I was trying to learn about werewolves and what I’d gotten myself into by agreeing to be Ian’s pack. The book? Werewolf in Love. The chapter that required Becker to handcuff himself during our pack sessions? Chapter thirteen.
I tear open the package, excited for the book. Becker proclaiming his feelings via book recommendation was just the kind of dorky romantic that meshed well with my own inner nerd. But my stomach sinks at what I might find in chapter thirteen. It was something bad enough that Becker believed he couldn’t trust himself.
I scan the table of contents, reading the headlines for each chapter and promising myself I’ll read it cover to cover. Starting in the middle goes against every organizational fiber in my soul.
Chapter Thirteen: Love Gone Wrong
I frown. Did Becker think we’d made some mistake? How exactly is what we’re doing wrong? I flip to the chapter.
I’m assaulted by a photo I never expected or prepared for. There’s the face of a woman; she’s covering her face with her arm, but it doesn’t block her bloody lip, or the obvious swelling of her one visible eye.
And that is the tamest photo in the chapter.
Another is of a deep cut mark along the side of a man’s torso. One is a crime scene taped off and sheets covered in more blood than one human body could possibly possess and a body outline as if the person had been dragged off the bed and left to die. Another of someone’s neck, little grooved cuts, each requiring a stitch or three each in a nightmarish smile pattern of teeth.
There are more photos. Plenty more. And captions.
I read the first page of the chapter, my blood simmering with each sentence until it reaches a full boil.
Werewolves do many things with intense passion and sex is no different. For a wolf there’s a fine line between love and pain. Wolves are expected to lose control, but for some, especially for those whose wolf DNA runs deep, that passion can turn deadly.
Is this why Becker insisted that I protect myself? That I stand up to him? He’d been coaching me on how to not become a victim of werewolf violence.
I look for research studies, statistics, facts to back up this claim, but it’s only anecdotal evidence and correlations. Correlations are not real math. Correlations are the little white lie of statistics. Investigative actuaries do not rely on correlations alone to make decisions and neither should Becker or I. I slam the book shut. There is likely other useful information in there, but the author lost my respect.
Correlations? Bah.
Twenty minutes later I’m deep in my own research. Real statistics on domestic violence cases. Hard n
umbers. Case studies written up in tiny, but respected journals, by scientists who know their way around a chi square and can design a blind study that would make W. Edwards Deming weep and Florence Nightingale dance the jig.
I’m busy dreaming up other famous statisticians who will bow to my genius when my phone rings.
“Yeah,” I answer without looking at the caller.
“Kate?”
It’s Kyle. Crap.
I sigh. “Why are you calling me?”
“You emailed me.” His tone goes straight to irritated. I don’t like it.
“I was going to text you my question. I don’t want to talk to you.” Just knowing Becker wouldn’t have gone far and he’ll likely hear I’m on the phone with my ex will be enough to have him charging through here trying to control himself and failing miserably. Then he’ll feel guilty because it’s not normal to go insane over a woman. He’ll see it as evidence that he’s broken.
“Well, I’m here now, knee deep in old files Detective Lipski dropped off this morning and working with a clueless tech guy at the office about the retirement accounts that were left open while I work from home because—” His abrupt pause is laced with a desperation I can’t explain, until he too calmly, too politely adds, “Can you hold a second?”
I don’t get the chance to answer. Instead I’m treated to the background noise of someone, I’m guessing Kyle, hurling. It sounds brutal, like he might have ejected his stomach lining. I wince.
He gets back on the line. “Damn it, I thought I’d muted that. Kate? You still there?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Look, Kyle, if you’re not feeling well my questions can wait.”
“No. I’m fine. It’s those fucking fate-blocking cookies. The first batch did nothing. I thought I was immune like Detective Lipski. We both joked about how demons and gremlins could absorb most magic. It must have had a delayed effect because this second batch…” He pauses a little longer, as if he’s attempting to hold back another episode.
I have the sneaking suspicion Ali made his second batch extra special.
I go for distraction and explain my issue. A seventh blood fever case gone missing.
“But isn’t that one solved? Lipski updated me a little bit ago. Said Officer Becker gave him the details, and gods, it really sucks about his kid. Do you need another guard to fill in his spot?”
It takes me a moment to catch up. Oh, right, Hank’s daughter dislocated her shoulder at softball. It seemed like it happened last week rather than an hour ago.
“No. No guards. We have it all covered.”
The door bangs open. Aaaannnndd cue a sweaty protective werewolf. He does a piss poor job of trying to not look me in the eye and pretend he didn’t just run back the second Kyle’s voice came through the phone offering to come guard me. He paces at the front entry of the house, scratching the back of his head and looking innocent.
“I have to go, Kyle. Get me those names and addresses when you’ve got them.” I hang up before Kyle begins his argument in favor of him being put on my guard duty. Once he makes up his mind about something he doesn’t let it go until I agree. He’d have made a good lawyer.
Becker flashes me a shy grin. “I was doing fine until he said he wanted to be added to the guard duty.”
“Noted.”
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t want him to experience Ali’s wards if he came unwelcomed.”
I chuckle. “I’m sure you were very concerned for his well being.”
He heads to the kitchen, riffling through the cupboard of snacks. He goes for one of Ali’s high protein pumpkin seed bars. My gaze drops to the counter right by his right hip. The book, Werewolf in Love, is lying open on chapter thirteen. I take a hesitant step forward, not ready for him to see it and know I read it, but he shuts the cupboard and faces me. His eyes follow mine. Then I watch as the color drains from his face.
“Okay.” He sets the pumpkin bar next to the book. Takes a step back. “All right. You got the book…” He watches me for a second, analyzing my expression. “You read the chapter.”
It’s not a question.
“Becker—”
“Good. It’s Becker, not Ian,” he mutters to the book. Then his teal gaze focuses on me. “So, I understand if we need to rearrange things. I know I said you couldn’t go back on the pack deal once you made your final decision, but I can make it work with Dalia if you’re freaked out. Your safety is the most important thing to me and I—”
“Becker, stop.”
He does, his shoulders sagging and looking utterly defeated.
“I wanted to tell you,” he whispers, “but every time I tried it was like sandpaper in my gut. It was selfish.”
I walk on careful feet to the other side of the counter. I make a point of flipping through the book. “This is trash.”
He shakes his head. “It’s reality.”
I slide a binder paper out from under the book. I wasn’t ready to present my case yet. It’s like having your presentation moved up a day, but I knew I’d have to move quickly on this, so I do the best I can. “Of the documented cases of domestic abuse, less than five percent were committed by werewolves against their partners.” I show him the journal article on my laptop. I’d clicked it to minimize, but it comes right up.
Becker scrolls through it. “These are mostly wolves who don’t need pack. Not enough wolf to really compare—”
“Then what about these case studies here? There was no statistical significance of the amount of wolf in their DNA and the probability they would attack someone they loved.” I maximize that screen as well. “Becker, I’ve got ten other articles just like these. Stereotypes against wolves are just that. Stereotypes. They don’t determine the behavior of an individual. If you happen to have some characteristics of a wolf, it doesn’t mean you’ll have them all.”
“I have poor impulse control. My emotions are always at the surface. I need pack like a drug.”
“You handled the call with Kyle pretty well and I’d say you’re not in a good moment right now. You’re improving. It’s only been a few months.”
He scoffs. “You have no idea the nasty thoughts that were going through my mind when I heard Kyle’s voice in this house while I was out there running.” His lip curls and there’s a flint in his eyes, the threat of gold shining through.
“So you’ll go feral because some book says so? Come on, you’re smarter than that. Your dads raised you to be kind and considerate. We don’t know the history of these wolves.”
He blinks. Sighs. “I do.” He gently moves my hand from the book, turns a page, and points. “This was done by Michael Hay. He’s one of the experiments.” His finger drags to another picture in the corner of that same page. “Tarry Rogers is an experiment, too.” There’s one of a woman, teeth bared, blood on her chin, standing over the body of another woman. “Mara Sanchez. Experiment.” He closes the book. “Hank called while I was running. I updated him on the case and asked about the DNA test. He told me the DNA results are expected back tomorrow. I could tell he was holding back. I could hear it in the quiver of his voice. He wants to tell me in person. I think it’s safe to assume Dalia is my sister.”
He swallows. Unsure. Vulnerable.
I suck in a breath. Not expecting that. Each of my carefully researched cases dissolves into the dust of unknown. Untested. And I can see the hopeful look on his face that I’ll give him something to open up a chance for doubt. That there’s a possibility he won’t go feral. The only information we have on the experiments that’s readily available isn’t positive news. Except…
I slide the book from between us. “How many of the experiment cases do you know of that went feral?”
“At least thirteen. I’m looking into two others as possibilities.”
“How many babies were born into the study?”
“That number’s never been clear. I’ve heard as low as twenty-six and as high as a hundred. It’s probably closer to thirty given the resources and what I’ve
been able to track down.”
“So there are wolves out there who have lived a healthy life? Dalia is stable? She’s not gone feral. I met her briefly, but there wasn’t anything about her that seemed off or dangerous.”
“She’s female. I have no idea how many of the babies were female vs male.”
“There seem to be a few feral females in these pictures. Looks like they were just as likely. And did they have pack? My bet is they didn’t.”
“That’s speculation.”
“It’s reasonable.” I come around to his side of the counter, wait until I have his attention. “Let’s not plan our lives around maybes.”
He cocks his head to the side. “Our lives?”
It’s an innocent point, but his tone doesn’t give me a hint how he feels about my slip one way or the other. “I mean, well, I mean whatever you’re okay with it meaning.”
His brow furrows and he shrugs off my lame attempt at keeping things light. “It’s just the first time you’ve mentioned your future with me in it.”
My first instinct is to correct him. Surely, he’s mistaken, but thinking through our interactions it has always been me keeping him at arm’s length because I didn’t feel I had a right to belong in his world. Except now I realize I’m in it, and there’s a no-return policy on werewolves. The certainty of it was intimidating at first, but now it’s oddly settling.
“Let me…” Becker puts a hand on my shoulder, a small tentative pat. “Let me take a shower.”
When I don’t answer, he glides the pumpkin seed bar from the counter and takes it into the shower.
I’m left wondering if my slip was a good sign. The one he’d been waiting for. Or if I missed some cue that I didn’t know had been set. I head to the bedroom to change into my yoga pants and sports bra, the usual pack attire, but halfway through the change I eye the comforter hiding the teddy Ali sneaked into my things.
Chapter 15
I’m lacing the leather straps of the lingerie between my fingers, too preoccupied to realize the shower shut off, when I hear Becker in the hallway. I toss the teddy into the closet. Becker appears in the doorway in his towel.
