Page 42 of A Malicious Menagerie
22
The Hamburger and the Thief
On my way to work the next day, I make a stop to pick up a special order, and the guard doesn’t think anything of me bringing in leftovers in a Styrofoam container for my dinner. Once John and I have traded barbs and he’s left for his side of the menagerie, I sneak my way through the halls and out to the woods with the takeout box in hand.
Chase is waiting for me, and he visibly perks up when he sees what’s in my hand. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Picked it up fresh,” I tell him, stopping at the door to the enclosure. I hesitate for a moment, but after thinking it over all day, I realized that Chase has been a werewolf since we met. He was a werewolf yesterday, and the night of the gala, and that day I forgot the divider and he laid his head in my lap. If he really wanted to hurt me, he’s had ample opportunity. Instead, all he’s done is comfort me, flirt with me, and protect me.
With these thoughts in mind, I take a surreptitious breath before tapping my key card to the reader. The minute the door opens, I hold the box out to him, and he snatches it up with barely leashed glee.
“Sweet baby Jesus,” he drawls as he pops the lid. He peers down at the perfectly cooked burger, greasy bun, and golden-brown fries as if he’s actually witnessing the baby messiah in a manger. Then, he looks up at me with an expression infinitely more reverent. “Thank you.”
“No big deal,” I mumble, flushing.
“It’s not even from a fast food joint,” he notes in awe as he scrutinizes the burger from every angle.
“It’s from a pub down the street from me. Excellent bar food.”
He gives me a mock pout that’s hard to make out through all that beard. “Are you telling me you went to a bar and picked me up a burger but no beer?”
“If you’re so unhappy with it…” I reach out as if to take the box, and he turns to guard it with his body.
“Nope, never mind, this is great. No beer required.” Without further fanfare, he promptly drops to sit on the ground. I join him, grateful for my thick khakis as I pluck a twig out from under me.
Seeming to have no such discomfort, Chase drops the open box in his naked lap and goes to reach in before pausing. He glances up at me, his dark brows rising in question. “Are you hungry? Do you want some?”
Maybe it’s dumb, but the question makes my eyes burn and my throat tighten with emotion. This man has been eating raw meat for every meal for over eighteen months, and the first time he’s been offered something more in all that time, his first thought is to share it with me. “Maybe just a fry,” I choke out at last when his expression morphs from curious to downright concerned by my silence.
He holds out the box between us, and I pluck out a single crispy fry. I shove it in my mouth before I can say something stupid like that, werewolf or not, he’s the sweetest man I’ve ever met. Or that sharing a meal, even if I only accepted a single French fry, is so weirdly domestic that it makes my heart pitter-patter and my chest ache.
As I chew, Chase fishes the burger from its bed of Styrofoam and fries. He makes a big production of breathing in the greasy scent before shooting me a grin that involves awhole lotof fang. Then, he takes a massive bite, demolishing a third of the burger in one chomp. He moans as he chews, his dark-fringed eyelids sliding shut with pleasure. I can only stare at him, gratified and weirdly turned on by his enjoyment.
“This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he rumbles before taking a more moderate second bite.
“You might be biased,” I tease him.
“Nah,” he replies with a grin. “It’s not that I’m biased. It’s all relative, right? First hamburger in over a year, not to mention the excellent company. Why shouldn’t this be the best burger I’ve ever had?”
His words make the flush I barely just recovered from rekindle. Eager to change the subject before I spontaneously combust, I stutter, “S-so, where were you when you had your last burger?”
He considers my question while he pops a fry in his mouth with another pleased hum. “I think I was at a dive bar outside Fairbanks.”
I squint at him. “Fairbanks, Alaska? Why?”
“Because I live there,” he says with a shrug.
“Oh.” I digest this bit of information, remembering that Mathis did say something about finding him in Denali. “Have you lived there all your life?”
“Except for presently, yes,” he answers dryly. “It’s where my pack is.”
“‘Pack,’” I repeat slowly. “As in… all werewolves?”
“Every one of us,” he agrees. “Well, except for a handful of humans, my mom included.”
“How’d she end up living with a bunch of werewolves?” I ask curiously.
He quirks a wry smile, that dimple coming out to play. “To quote her, Dad was a ‘handsome son of a gun.’”
