Page 22 of Wolf.e
I don’t listen to my conscience, instead I listen to the little dark voice in my head telling me to go as I push it open. The space is large and spotless. A massive American flag with an eagle in the center graces the wall. It’s pinned straight and taut over a comfortable looking, worn in leather sofa. The floors are dark wood and shiny clean. It smells like cedarwood. There is a kitchen area at the back, it’s almost like a studio apartment of sorts. The other side of the wide open space has a solid wood divider.
I venture behind like I have permission, telling myself it’sperfectly fine that I’m snooping in this stranger’s space. A bigger than normal king-size bed made impeccably with dark gray bedding and ten feet of bookshelves lined with books catches my eye. My mouth falls open as I move toward them and take in some of the titles, running my fingers along the spines as I go. As a girl who always liked to read the classics, this is impressive.
The Art of War
Fire in The Belly
A collection of very old looking Machiavellis.
The Great Gatsby
The Beautiful and Damned
1984
And the shelves continue, lined with classic works of literature. I stand there running a finger over them taking in the other items. Photos catch my eye. They’re of Wolfe and Sean and other men in beige fatigues head to toe. Even their helmets are beige. I flip them over to see if there is any info on the back.
FIELD LIGHTS 2009, ROARING LION 2010, EAGLES TRACE 2012
All of them say 2nd Battalion 9th.
Missions?
Some are in casual settings; some look like they’re on-duty photos. I trace a line down Wolfe’s face in one of them, white T-shirt covered in dust, he’s so tan his skin looks unrecognizable, and he holds a very scary looking gun on a table in front of him like he’s cleaning it. He has a lot less ink in these photos than now, but that same emotionless gaze haunts his eyes.
The gaze of a man who’s seen it all.
I move on and pull a copy ofThe Great Gatsbyout and skim my fingers over the weathered spine, flipping it over. The eyes in the solid blue cover pierce mine. I haven’t seen this editionbefore and I instantly know it’s very old. I open it and read the handwritten note on the inside cover.
“To my fierce protector, always keep your world view bigger than our backyard,”and a heart under it.
“Why are you here?” a deep voice booms.Thedeep voice that sends shivers up the back of my neck.
I spin around and fall backward against the shelf, making it rattle.
Wolfe stands just ten feet away from me. He’s freshly showered, his hair loose, touching his ears in wet strands, and he’s wearing a clean black T-shirt and black jeans. He holds his cut in his hand. I take in his corded inked forearms, rippled with veins as he swipes his hair back.
I open my mouth, but I have nothing to say. There’s no way around this, I’m totally busted snooping in his room.
But honestly, who am I kidding? I knew the moment I saw the photos this was either his space or Ax’s. I’m still holding his book, for God’s sake.
“I asked what you’re doing here, I don’t ask twice,” he repeats, tossing his cut onto his bed in a slow intentional drop, his voice a deep velvet that both speeds my heart rate up and calms it all at the same time.
“I just…um, the light was on, I thought it was the way out,” I offer lamely as a flush creeps up my neck. “I mean, you’re the one who left the door wide open so it’s kind of your fault,” I add, trying to sound as confident as I can.
Wolfe moves toward me before I can say another word, closing the short distance between us in just two strides. I glance up at him towering over me. So close. Dangerously close.
He raises a hand, and I can’t help it, I flinch, afraid he might hurt me.
Wolfe studies my reaction with a hint of a smirk and embarrassment floods my chest, yet he continues, letting the back of his knuckles run over my cheekbone then down to the column of my throat. He’s touching me. I just met this man today and he’stouching me.
He pauses with his knuckles at the nape of my neck, feeling my thundering heartbeat under his fingers.
“There’s that smart mouth again. You use it freely, yet you’re terrified, little hummingbird.” His eyes meet mine as he flips his hand and grips my throat. His palm covers all of it and I understand instantly why he’s given me that name…he can see and feel my heart beating a million miles a minute. His fingers slide back into my hair, the pads of them trace my scalp before he grabs a fist full and pulls my neck taut, bringing my body forward to him so we’re flush, and I have nowhere to look but into his gray eyes.
Does he think I came here to have sex with him? Instinct takes over and I reach up and smack him in the face. The sound tells me it was hard, but I think it hurts me more than it hurts him, because he doesn’t even flinch.
He grips my hair tight enough for me to cry out. It burns like he’s ripping it out at the roots.
