Page 23 of Pack Frenzy
I clean up and turn off the light. The corridor outside smells faintly like eucalyptus and clean cotton—her room. Eli stocked the mini-fridge himself with water, juice, and protein drinks because he believes in future tense verbs. He’s been refilling it for years. If I could bottle that kind of faith, I’d drink it until the fucking nightmares stopped.
I don’t mean to pass her door. And I don’t expect the door to be open. I don’t expect anything. My body does anyway.
My cock pays no attention to politics, to good choices, to history. It tightens fast, ugly, like I’m twenty and stupid and don’t know how things end.
“Fuck,” I breathe, almost a laugh, almost a warning. I set my palm flat on the wall beside the frame, not touching the door. I can feel the tiny thrum through the studs where the lock is wired. She’s in there. Asleep or not. Breathing. Keeping that door between us because I told her she could, and she believed me.
Good.
It still hits wrong. Want shouldn’t feel like anger, but there it is—hot and bright in the knuckles. Not at her. At whatever partof me imagines the choke-noise Meredith made when Blake’s hand didn’t lift fast enough.
How I should’ve been with her and Blake that day. But I’d ignored my gut that said our packmate had a black heart. We’d gone into the city to pick out an engagement ring and surprise her with our proposal. Blake said it would be too suspicious if we all went, and that he’d stay behind, said she’d been tired, that he’d make sure she rested.
She trusted him. We all did.
I step back. Two steps. Five. Turn and walk away to my bedroom.
A cold shower is what I need, and I’m already stripping down as I enter my bathroom.
The water stings like winter. I brace one hand on the tile, breathe through my teeth while the spray needles my shoulders. I don’t close my eyes; I don’t need pictures to get hard. Her voice is enough.Thanks.The way she said it earlier, like the word might break open if she pressed too hard.
I work myself quick and mean, like pulling a splinter you can’t see. Release rips out of me with a rough sound I don’t like. It doesn’t help much. The water keeps pounding. The tile doesn’t answer back.
“You’re losing your edge,” I tell the drain, and turn the knobs all the way to cold until gooseflesh runs down my ribs and my head empties a little.
By the time I hit the kitchen, my hair is still damp, and I’ve got black pajama pants on. The place is quiet.
Eli’s knives are lined up on the magnet strip, pans stacked to his standard of control. I take out an onion and half a dozen carrots, a cutting board, and the heavy chef’s knife he babies like a pet.
After washing the carrots, I place them on the cutting board. The rhythm comes back easily: root end on, split, peel, quarter,slice. Chopping carrots doesn’t fix a damn thing, but it’s honest work. They don’t lie about why your eyes sting.
“What are you making?” a soft voice asks.
I don’t startle. I don’t do that; instead, I just look up.
Jess is at the doorway, bare feet on tile, hair damp and dark where it clings to her neck. The house robe is white cotton, the belt tied haphazardly as if she didn’t expect to leave the room, but changed her mind.
Her scent’s cleaner now—shampoo, warm skin, that soft Omega note underneath.
No heat spike. The suppressant Nexus stuck her with is still doing its job.
Doesn’t mean I’m not one bad decision from losing my damn mind.
“Roast with carrots and onions,” I manage, trying to sound normal.
“Can I help?” she asks, leaning on the counter.
“Onions need chopping.” I shrug. “They’ll make you cry if you look at them wrong.”
Her mouth tips. “I’m good at not crying.”
My eyes drop to her throat, and I wonder if she’d want a claiming bite there...ever. I put the blade down carefully, spine to the board. “We’ll see.”
I slide the onion toward her and pass the spare knife, handle first. Our fingers touch. It’s nothing—skin to skin for a heartbeat—but my pulse trips like I sprinted stairs.
She doesn’t look at our hands; rather, she lines up the onion instead. Sets the tip and starts careful, clean cuts.
“You cook?” I ask.
