Page 76 of Ravaged Wolf
Once everyone gets up, Nia and Pritchard take Drona’s kids back to the den, and Trevor carries the heavy cauldron to our cabin where we’ll let it cool. Right when we leave the clearing, behind a cluster of sugar maples, I can’t help but notice the matted undergrowth in the shape of a grown male wolf that smells like my mate.
I smile to myself and grab his free hand.
I guess he never left.
On human TV,males are always the one to plan the romantic evenings. They buy flowers, make reservations at a fancy restaurant, sprinkle rose petals on the bed, and light some candles. Shifters, at least ranked Moon Lake shifters, emulate humans in a lot of ways, and our males do the initiating, too, but in a different way. There is a lot more hunting and running in the woods involved. Less perfume and jewelry, more fresh meat.
Regardless, females don’t do the courting, so I’ve got no template. I searched on the internet, and there was stuff about how men never get flowers, and they should. There was also a lot about steak and blow jobs. The steak seemed like the best idea.
Bevan was able to hook me up with two ribeyes—he is the Old Den plug for everything—and since Trevor has built a fire pit in front of our cabin, complete with logs for seating, the plan is to make him dinner, get him all relaxed with a belly full of beef, and then tug his leash. I have no idea what I’m doing after I get him into our bedroom, but I’ve become a big believer in taking a first step and seeing what happens.
Tonight is the night. After the world’s most awkward conversation, held way louder than I was comfortable with, Granddad happily agreed to bunk at the elder cottage tonight. I told Trevor that I’m making a special dinner, and he should be back at the cabin by six. His face was both intrigued and stressed.
Flora and Enid held up a sheet so I could bathe in a corner of the pool. I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable enough to skinny dip like the scavengers. Rosie lent me a sundress with tiny yellow and red flowers that look like polka dots from a distance. She has more up top than me, so the scoop neckline sags a little lower than I’m used to, but I feel pretty, and that’s what counts.
I also feel terrified. And so far out of my depth I might as well be in the Mariana Trench. What I don’t feel is alone. I know that Trevor will be there by six on the dot—probably earlier—and he’ll be faking chill and nervous as hell on the inside, too.
If I tuned in, the bond would tell me, but also, I just kind of know. Maybe because I’m good at reading people. I had to be. There was always a lot riding on reading Dad’s mood and catching a bad turn before it was too late to make myself scarce.
Reading Trevor isn’t like that, though. He’s often stoic, especially around the pack, but his face never hardens. His mouth never twists. Reading Trevor is like coming across a patch of ashbalm or a dollar on the ground.
Like, I’ll be remaking the bed, casually fluffing a pillow, and I’ll glance up, and he’s looking at me while he folds back the top sheet, very nonchalant, but his eyes are zeroed in on my hands, and I know in my gut that he’s thinking about me making a nest. That he’slongingfor it. And then Granddad calls out, and the moment’s over, but I get to keep it and tuck it away in my good memories with cherry soda and blackberries and our wolves running together in the woods.
I smooth my palms down my dress and check the set up. The steaks are marinating, ready to go on the grill. The potatoes are already in the coals, wrapped in aluminum foil. A chocolate cake is sitting on the stump we use as a table. Drona’s oldest helped me make it from a box mix. It was a very close thing getting it out to the cabin without anyone dipping a finger in the icing.
It’s five forty-five. The weather is mild and still, and the sky is clear, the blue deepening as the sun sinks. The fire crackles. I started it myself. That’s one of the first things Trevor taught me how to do.
He’s not pushy about it, and there’s no sense that he expects me to earn my keep or carry my weight, but he’s always showing me things—how to pull a stripped screw, how to skin a squirrel—kind of like his wolf showed me that bear den. Like he’s trying to make sure I’m prepared or capable. It reminds me of how a father is supposed to act.
He’d be a good father.
My cheeks heat at the thought, and at that moment, he whistles from the woods to let me know he’s nearby. I busy myself putting the steaks on the grill.
When he emerges from the trees, I can scent his nerves. He bathed, too, and his curls are still a little damp. He’s wearing his best pants, the jeans with no tears, and a pale blue polo shirt that I don’t recognize. He must’ve borrowed it. I’ve seen his entire wardrobe, all five T-shirts, two flannels, and one hoodie.
His hands are shoved in his pockets, his shoulders curved forward. His smile is shy, but his eyes storm.
“You got steaks?”
“Yeah. Come sit. They won’t take long.” Like all shifters, we like our beef mooing.
He crosses the distance between us and sits on the log, very formally, like this is a job interview. “Where’d you get ribeyes?”
“I traded Bevan.”
“What did you trade?” A note has entered his voice. The question is very careful, not accusatory, but not exactly pleased.
“A bag of liberty caps I found foraging.”
“Liberty caps?”
“Mushrooms.” I flip up the edge of a steak to check the sear. “Magical variety.”
He relaxes almost imperceptibly. “You know if you want meat, just ask.”
I know. I can’t even mention something in passing without him bringing it home in some version or other, sooner or later. My favorite is when we were watching the Friday night movie with the pack, and I whispered that all that was missing was microwave popcorn, and the next Friday, he produced a can of sweet corn and said, “It’s the best I could do.”
“I wanted it to be a surprise.” The sear is perfect. I turn the steaks.
