Page 12 of Runt of the Pack
With a low growl of frustration, I dash more blue onto my canvas, trying to lose myself in the work. But Vlad’s stormy eyes and sculpted physique haunt my thoughts, distracting me from painting.
I can perfectly envision his ruggedly handsome features—strong jawline darkened by stubble, raven hair falling carelessly over his brow. And his body... even wounded, Vlad radiates raw power and masculine grace. I’ve traced the hard contours of his muscular chest and arms while tending his injuries, felt them tense and flex beneath my hands.
Heat rises in my cheeks remembering the thrill his nearness provoked, my dizzying awareness of him as a man, not merely a patient. The intoxicating scent of his skin—cedar smoke and mountain air—lingers in my memory. As does the allure of danger and dominance he exudes, so different from the safe detachment of my solitary life.
Everything about him seems designed to tempt me, from those piercing grey eyes to his deep, rumbling voice that makes my pulse flutter helplessly. What would it be like to be enveloped in those strong arms, pressed close against such a commanding figure? To have the full force of his focus fixed solely on me? The reckless fantasies keep invading my carefully ordered thoughts, spurred on by my she-wolf’s wanton cravings.
With an effort, I wrench my mind back to the canvas before me. I came in here to seek clarity and purpose, not mooning over a captivating stranger who will soon be gone from my reality...
This fixation is useless, I scold myself harshly. Vladimir will be gone soon, disappeared from my life as abruptly as he entered it. I must keep my distance, guard my heart. Yet even as my rational mind knows this truth, my she-wolf continues to pace and whine for his nearness.
If only this snowstorm would cease, allowing our lives to diverge once more. But we remain caged here a while longer, two restless souls churning with unspoken thoughts. This strange new tension is our reality now. However taxing, all I can do is endure it with patience... and pray my defenses hold firm against this growing storm within.
11
ANYA
I’m dragged reluctantly from sleep by the pale winter light filtering through the studio’s frosted windowpanes, casting everything in shades of muted blue. Blinking blearily, I lift my head from where I slumped over on my worktable. The unfinished Saint Petersburg cityscape mocks me from the easel—seems I passed out mid-brushstroke last night.
Judging by the weak sunlight, it must be late morning already. I stretch my stiff limbs, wincing at the crick in my neck from dozing at such an odd angle all night. This cramped studio was not meant for sleeping, but I couldn’t bring myself to return to the bedroom I’ve given over to Vlad. Just the thought of him makes my pulse quicken, remnants of hazy dreams stirring.
A heavy exhaustion clings to my bones despite the long rest, evidence of my inner turmoil. My demanding wolf does not understand why I keep avoiding our handsome wounded guest. She paces back and forth, her whining incessant, craving his company, his touch. But their forbidden allure terrifies me. I cannot trust my reactions when Vlad is near, as yesterday proved. Far safer to keep my distance until he’s gone.
Outside, the storm has finally exhausted its fury, though venturing out into the lingering blizzard would still be madness. It seems Vlad and I will continue to be trapped here for a little longer, pushing my self-restraint to its limits.
With a resigned sigh, I dip my brush in brilliant azure paint and half-heartedly add a few clean strokes to the frozen river beneath the Bridge of Kisses. But concentration eludes me, my mind fogged by weariness and unsettled thoughts.
A knock at the studio door jolts me from my artistic trance and nearly makes me tip over my paint water. I set down my brush, pulse quickening with anticipation and unease. There’s only one other soul currently taking shelter within these walls.
“Come in,” I call, keeping my voice carefully neutral. The door creaks open to reveal Vlad’s imposing figure filling the doorway. I sit frozen, paintbrush dripping unheeded as my exhausted brain struggles to reconcile the man before me with the one haunting my dreams all night.
His dark hair is disheveled and his eyes bleary from sleep. The splints on his leg are gone, and he seems to be putting some weight on it now. He looks far stronger today, some color returned to his rugged features. The silk shirt he wears strains slightly over his chest, revealing enticing glimpses of smooth tanned skin and hard muscle. My mouth goes dry, inner wolf keening wantonly at the prime masculine specimen now watching me with stormy eyes.
He scans the cluttered studio curiously before his gaze settles on my work in progress. Something complex flashes through his expression then. Surprise? Affinity? Fear? I cannot decipher it fully before his stony mask slides back into place.
“Hey,” I offer gently, trying to set him at ease. “I hope you slept alright.”
“Well enough, thanks to your hospitality.” His voice is a soft rumble, though I can still detect traces of his earlier guardedness.
“Apologies if I interrupted you,” Vlad murmurs. His deep voice rolls through me, leaving exquisite tingles in its wake. “I thought you might like some tea...”
Tea. Of course. I try to gather some shred of poise, clearing my sleep-roughened throat. “Sure. I’ll just go prepare some—”
“It’s not a request,” Vlad interjects, tone abruptly curt. I freeze, eyes widening. He seems to realize his sharpness and softens his voice. “What I mean is… I’ve already made it. I wished to do this small thing for you, as thanks for your care these past days.”
Heat blooms in my cheeks at the gentle reprimand. “Oh... That’s very kind of you, Vlad. Please, come in.”
I make to stand on still-unsteady legs but Vlad is there in an instant, setting down the tea tray to gently grip my shoulder. “No need to get up on my account,” he murmurs, gray eyes crinkling with smile lines. “Relax. You’ve more than earned it after caring for me so selflessly.”
His light hold feels scorching even through my wool sweater. I can only nod numbly as Vlad releases me to prepare our tea, my skin prickling at the lingering sensation of his fingers branding my flesh. I want those hands on me again, stroking, claiming... No, stop. I force the reckless imaginings down, watching mutely as Vlad makes himself at home in my private creative space.
Soon, we sit facing each other. The tea is bold and fragrant, its earthy flavor finally rousing me fully awake. Vlad watches me over the curling steam, content to sit without speaking. But the heavy silence only amplifies the charged air. I fidget under his intense stare, pulse racing. Does he also feel this nameless magnetism steadily drawing us together?
Clearing my throat, I make stilted small talk to fill the expectant hush. “The storm seems to finally be moving on. But it still looks treacherous out there...”
Vlad’s eyes crinkle again in that unfairly attractive way. “No need to rush. I’m more than happy to enjoy your gracious hospitality a while longer.” His deep timbre caresses the words, sending traitorous shivers racing down my spine.
I can sense his eyes tracking me, taking in my home with a dominant assessing gaze… What must he see as he studies these cramped and faded spaces? The trappings of a hermit’s life, barren of any real comfort or joy? I find I do not wish for this stranger to view me solely as an object of pity, even if the assumption is understandable.
