Page 8 of The Alpha's Warlock
Not that I could blame him for it today, though. Or tonight, rather. What little sun there was had gone down while I drooled into Ian's pillow, and the only light in the room came from the bulb over the kitchen sink. Ian must have turned it on before he went wherever it was alpha werewolves went when they didn't want to be alone with the warlocks they'd just knotted.
Yeah, if I were him I might have run for the hills, too. Or at least taken a walk to get some space. A small, pathetic voice in the back of my mind wailed that maybe he could've stuck around long enough to make sure I was okay. I squelched it.
Fuck that. I was a grown man, and I didn't need my mate to hold my hand, or stroke my hair, or whatever.
In that spirit, I sat up, muscles creaking and joints popping — more like an aged man than a grown one. My head spun a little, but it eased after a second. There. I was fine. Time to get a shower, and hunt for a change of clothes, and something to eat, and then — and then, I had to figure out what the hell to do next.
***
Ian's toiletries were surprisingly high-end for a guy I'd always thought was one brow-ridge away from a Neanderthal. Not to mention, the Armitage pack was broke — the fact that they hadn't spent the money to replace the carpeting in the pack house since the Bee Gees were topping the charts sort of underlined that. Also, Exhibit B: the one-room shanty I was currently standing in.
So maybe Ian wasn't very smart with money, but I was willing to overlook it as I lingered in the shower, scrubbing off every trace of the shaman's herbs, not to mention the sweat, semen, and general funk, and replacing it with pine-scented body wash. Then I rummaged through Ian's dresser and found a pair of drawstring sweatpants that would stay on with some magical help, and a t-shirt that looked more like a dress once I pulled it all the way down.
The refrigerator was a mix of typical bachelor — ancient condiments, expired milk, and half a pack of Kraft singles — and werewolf gourmet, including an intimidatingly large and bloody hunk of meat that hadn't come from any butcher. I shuddered and shut the door.
The pantry yielded a box of Pop-Tarts. I didn't bother looking for an expiration date. Those things had a half-life like frosted-cherry plutonium.
I was leaning on the kitchen counter and munching my second Pop-Tart when I felt a tug on the bond that signaled Ian was getting close. A moment later, his heavy footsteps thudded on the front porch, shaking the whole house, and then the front door shuddered open, sticking a bit in the frame.
Ian stopped abruptly just inside the door, staring at me.
“Take a picture, it'll last longer,” I said, crumbs spraying down my front. A chunk of Pop-Tart broke off, and I missed my lunge and watched it hit the floor. The surprisingly clean floor, except for the bits I'd dropped in the last few minutes. The hardwood boards were a bit scratched up, but Ian obviously swept them often. Oops.
He huffed. “Pretty sure I'll have all the opportunities I need to look at you, now that we're mated for life.” He didn't sound like he was looking forward to it.
“Way to bring down the mood, Ian.” I shoved the last of the Pop-Tart into my mouth as obnoxiously as I could. A few more crumbs pattered down onto the floor, and I didn't feel guilty this time.
Ian grumbled something I didn't catch, shoved the door back into place, giving it a lift and a tug, and crossed the room to drop onto the scuffed leather couch set across from the bed. The space in between was bare except for another overturned milk crate doubling as a table. Not a rug, not a TV, nothing.
A long sigh was my only answer. Ian scrubbed his hands over his face and fell back in a graceless sprawl, legs akimbo and head tipped back.
“Where were you today?” I hadn't really meant to ask; it just popped out. And I couldn't have sounded more like a bored and jealous husband if I'd tried.
Clearly Ian agreed. He cracked one eye open to peer at me and said, “Talking to Matt. We just fucked a couple of hours ago. Miss me already?”
Anger boiled up in a sudden burst, taking me a little by surprise. “Go fuckyourself,” I snarled, pissed that I'd sounded so needy and pissed at him for noticing and hell, pissed at everything. But why shouldn't I be pissed off? I was kidnapped. And now I was mated. Thissucked. “Maybe you could've, I don't know, stuck around for five fucking minutes to make sure I wasn't dead? Or gone fucking grocery shopping once in the past decade?”
“With what, magic beans?” he shot back, baring his teeth. “You may have noticed I'm not exactly rolling in it. Sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart, but if you were looking to sponge off the Armitage pack for the rest of your life, you fucked up.”
That sarcastic, hostilesweethearthurt like hell. Figured, that the first time anyone ever called me that, he didn't mean it.
“Maybe you shouldn't have blown the whole month's budget on salon shampoo, then! And 'sponge off the pack'? Are you out of your mind? I didn't want to mate with you in the first place!”
“Yeah, well, neither did I, and the stupid shampoo was my Christmas present from my mom. She wanted me totake care of myselfandhave something nice for once. Also she probably thinks I'd stand a better chance of giving her some grandkids someday if women think I smell good.” Ian jumped to his feet and leaned over the kitchen island, which might have been a comforting barrier if I hadn't known he could be over it and have his teeth in my throat in two seconds. “But I guess that plan's off the table since you were stupid enough toget yourself fucking kidnappedand then convince Matt to make itmyproblem!” His voice had risen to a shout, his eyes were glowing, and if I hadn't already been braced against the sink, I'd have stumbled backwards.
I had clenched my hands around the edge of the counter, though, hard enough that my fingers were losing sensation. My heart was beating hard enough to jump out, and I couldn't get a full breath even though I was panting.
Stupid fight or flight. I hated being a coward, I really did. But the way he looked right then, a flicker of a whisker away from wolfing out completely and ripping my entrails out, I couldn't blame myself too much.
“Maybe,” I whispered, and then swallowed hard, licked my lips, tried to fill my lungs. “Maybe we should both take it down a notch.”
Ian didn't move, didn't speak, but the gold slowly faded out of his eyes, leaving nothing but human blue. He moved back. Not much, but enough that I could relax a tiny bit.
At long last, he said, “You're right. We're stuck with each other.” He sounded wondering, as if he'd only that moment realized it. “We're stuck with each other,” he repeated, and that time he just sounded fucking depressed.
“Yeah. We are.” I relaxed a bit more. Not going to be eviscerated this time, it seemed.
“Okay.” He blew out a long breath. “I can try to be polite if you can. But.” He fixed me with a steely look. “If you get Pop-Tart crumbs in the bed, I'll rip your fucking throat out.”
