Page 20 of Wedding for My Werewolf

He’d told himself this was about convenience—protection for her, freedom from his mother’s matchmaking for him. Clean. Simple. But the spark that had jumped between them when they’d shaken hands… that had been anything but simple.

His wolf pushed against his control, demanding he acknowledge the truth. This wasn’t just about duty or practicality. He wanted to know her story, to understand what put that wariness in her eyes. To earn her trust, not just claim it through some arranged agreement.

His wolf rumbled in satisfaction at the admission. He sighed and returned to his chair. He had reports to complete, but instead hefound himself opening the database on his computer and typing in Thatcher’s name.

A match popped up immediately. Rick Thatcher, bounty hunter. Licensed, but with multiple complaints of excessive force. His jaw tightened as he scrolled through the reports. Thatcher specialized in finding people who didn’t want to be found.

The pieces were beginning to make sense. Robin’s fear. Her conditions. The way she startled at sudden movements.

His wolf snarled, protective instincts rising, and he sat back, rubbing his temples. Whatever Robin was running from, Thatcher had tracked her here. The thought of her being hunted made his blood boil.

He picked up his phone, dialing a contact in the state police. “Dave? Yeah, I know it’s late. Need information on a bounty hunter named Rick Thatcher.”

The response made his grip tighten on the receiver. Thatcher had a reputation for bringing in his targets by any means necessary. Three of them had ended up in the hospital.

“Thanks. I owe you one.”

He hung up, his decision made. Thatcher needed to leave Fairhaven Falls—before his wolf decided to make the point personally.

CHAPTER 8

Robin hesitated at the threshold of Eric’s cabin, taking it in. The cabin’s rustic exterior had given way to an unexpectedly spacious interior, all exposed beams and warm wood tones. A stone fireplace dominated one wall, flanked by built-in bookshelves stuffed with a motley collection of books and found objects. A worn leather jacket was draped over a chair and a collection of carved wooden figures lined the mantel.

“This way.” He brushed past her, not quite touching her, the faint scent of cedar and something wild trailing in his wake. “Main bedroom’s yours.”

“I can’t take your?—”

“You can and you will,” he said firmly. “I’ll use the office. Already set up a cot in there.”

He pushed open a door, revealing a bedroom that practically screamed bachelor, from the simple navy bedding to the sparse decorations.

“I cleared out the top drawer, and the bathroom’s through there.” He hesitated for a second. “We’ll have to share that.”

She walked past him into the bedroom, her skin prickling at his closeness. The room smelled like him—that same cedar and wilderness scent surrounded her—and her heart skipped a beat. Sleeping in his bedroom, wrapped in his scent, felt more intimate than she’d expected.

“I really should take the office?—”

“Let me do this right.”

She turned, finding his golden eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch.

“Right. Okay. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” His voice was huskier than usual, his eyes starting to glow, and something stirred deep inside her.

Her breath caught in her throat. His chest brushed her arm as he passed, the brief contact sending heat spiraling through her body.

She stood rooted to the floor, her body buzzing, her heart racing, as the front door closed and he disappeared outside.

Stop being foolish, she scolded herself, and opened her backpack. She pulled out a sweater, then hesitated. Unpacking her clothes felt oddly permanent.No. It’s just temporary.

She slid open the top drawer of the oak dresser, appreciating the smooth glide after months of rickety furniture in cheap hotels. Her few pieces of clothing barely filled a quarter of the space so she tucked her backpack in as well.

The backpack landed with a softthunkand she frowned, digging into the side pocket. Her sketchbook. She’d forgotten she’d tucked it between her clothes during her hasty packingall those months ago. Her fingers shook as she flipped through the sketches. There was the old man who fed the pigeons every Tuesday in the park. The barista with the septum piercing who always remembered her order. A mother and daughter sharing a pretzel on the subway platform. Her old life, captured in charcoal.

Her throat tightened at the half-finished portrait of Martin staring out the window behind his desk. She’d captured his sharp jawline and designer glasses, but the smile that had seemed so charming at the time looked twisted now. Had it always been like that or was she seeing it from a new perspective?

She snapped the book shut, her hands trembling, and shoved it under her backpack. That life, those people, that version of herself—they belonged to a different world. A world where she’d been naive enough to trust, to believe in people’s good intentions.

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