Page 51 of Perfectly Naïve
Most nights he works, Wilder gets home closer to midnight. The tattoo shop keeps odd hours in order to accommodate clients. For some people, it’s hard to take time off, but Wilder working late means that I miss him at dinner.
I slide out of Liam’s bed, checking that he’s still sleeping before tiptoeing down the hall. Wilder is sitting at the table, a glass of water in front of him and bags beneath his eyes.
“Hey,” I murmur, sitting beside him.
He glances up from his phone, the lines of stress on his face bleeding away as he takes me in. “Hey, sweetness. What are you doing up so late?”
“I was waiting for you.”
“Me?”
I nod.
“Why?”
“Because I missed you.” I shrug, averting my gaze. “And I wanted to see if you were hungry.”
Humming, Wilder reaches for my chair and drags it closer to his. He wraps his arms around me. “You’re such a good omega.”
“Wild,” I say, biting my cheek. Those words do funny things to my insides. Mother always says I’ll never be good. The more time I spend with this pack, the more I think I can be.
“It’s true,” he murmurs, burying his nose against my throat and breathing in. “You smell so good.”
I pat his back. “Are you hungry?”
“I could eat.”
“Then, let me take care of you.”
He breathes me in again, arms tightening around me when I try to stand, and I think for a moment he won’t let me go. He relents after a moment, exhaling with a groan.
“Long night?”
“A long session.” He stretches. “I like to get as much done on a piece as I can at one time, but this one is big. It’ll take another sitting.”
“Why do you want to do it all at one time?”
“The muse is a fickle being,” he murmurs, eyeing me as I pull out the ingredients to make him a toasted sandwich.
I’ve heard of an artist’s muse and always wondered what it feels like. “Is your muse a person?”
“No, I think my muse is more about the universe.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know, it’s dumb.”
The bread is soft, giving against my fingers as I lay two pieces on a plate. I grab a knife. “What’sdumb about the universe? It’s full of magical things.” He doesn’t respond right away, and I shift my focus to find him with a pinched face. “Wild?”
“You’re smart.”
My eyebrows lift. “I think so?”
“I’m not.”
I rear back. “Who told you that?”
“No one had to,” he says, glancing away. “I’m a tattoo artist.”
Setting aside the sandwich making, I head over to him and wait until he meets my gaze. “Being creative doesn’t mean you’re stupid. In fact, the true sign of intelligence isn’t knowledge but imagination. You know who said that?”
“No.”
