Page 2 of Wolfgang

His mate was here.

And Wolfe didn’t need anyone’s permission to claim him.

one

Eric

Therewasaredrose on Eric’s front doorstep.

He paused where he stood, still in his hospital scrubs, keys in hand, breath frosting in a soft fog in front of him.

Had someone left it there on accident? Maybe let it fall out of a bouquet before they’d realized they’d gotten the wrong address for whatever heartfelt message they were sending?

But it looked so…deliberate. It had been placed front and center on his doormat. Bloodred, perfectly shaped, thorns left intact on the stem.

Eric bent over and picked it up with thumb and forefinger, careful not to prick himself. Huh. He’d never been given flowers before. And definitely not such a dramatic, singular red rose like this. It should be filling him with some kind of warmth, right? An unexpected romantic gesture at his literal doorstep.

But what he felt instead was a strange chill running down his spine.

But, then again, that could just be because it was fuckingfreezingout, the night air heavy with the threat of snow.

Eric unlocked his front door with his free hand, looking over his shoulder as he did so. He wasn’t sure if he was thinking he’d catch his admirer in the act or what (and how dumb would that be, them just standing there in the wintery night, waiting for him to arrive?), but the street behind him was empty.

He stepped inside quickly anyway, throwing his keys on the hallway table as he did so, and tried to think who it could have been. Cindy? But they’d fucked like, two months ago, and she hadn’t seemed too eager to repeat the experience. Philip? Except he’d told Eric just last week that he’d found a steady boyfriend and was “done hooking up on the sly.” Neither seemed on the verge of courting him with floral arrangements.

Someone entirely new? That would definitely be a change of pace; Eric had never been wooed before; that was for sure. He was always the one doing the approaching, and he struck out more often than not lately, despite the fact that he was tall, blond, and built—and not that rough in the face either, in his own humble opinion. People in this town could sense his desperation, he was pretty sure. Smell his need to be touched on him or something. And he didn’t quite care enough to hide it.

Because what did it matter if he was desperate, or cheesy, or smarmy? Getting rejected 80 percent of the time was better than never getting accepted at all, right? It wasn’t like anyone was going to want to keep him, even if he did come off sincere.

He hadn’t realized, moving to Hyde Park, just how much small towns talked. Ever since his first tentative grope at sixteen, he’d always used sex as a form of release. And it had never been a problem in the bigger cities; there was alwayssomeonelooking for a good time. But it had taken less than six months for the population of Hyde Park to unanimously declare him a man-whore. Sleezy. Silly. Not worth anyone’s serious consideration.

He couldn’t even be mad about it. It wasn’t like they were wrong.

Eric set the rose on the kitchen counter, thinking maybe he’d put it in a little glass with water later. First, he needed a beer. Or a shower. A beerinthe shower, perhaps?

Before he could decide, his phone’s ringtone cut through the silence. He didn’t recognize the number. He debated leaving it to voice mail, but it could be one of the nurses, trying to track him down after he fucked up some order or another.

“Monroe,” he answered.

Nothing.

“This is Dr. Monroe,” he repeated, wondering if there was a lag on the other line.

Still nothing.

Well, fine. He hit the end call button, tossing his phone on the counter next to his flower, only for it to ring again immediately.

He answered it without looking, his tone overly jovial to hide his irritation. “Dr. Monroe here. How can I help you?”

“Well, isn’tthata pretentious way to answer the phone.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. If he’d known who was on the other line, he would have had his shower beer (or three, or four) before answering. Eric pressed fingers to his forehead, hard as he could manage. “Mom. Sorry, I thought you were one of the nurses.”

“What, you don’t have your own mother saved on your phone?”

“No, I—”

“And why would the nurses be calling your personal phone, anyway? What have you been getting up to?” His mother’s tone was laced with suspicion. As if a nurse calling him on his cell was the clue she’d been looking for that he was some black market doctor / drug dealer.

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