Everything about him was large and dark, like a new moon in human form.
And the most overlooked quality of wolves—and moons—was their beauty. There was no law prohibiting predators from being both beautiful and deadly. This man was both—in the best ways. He'd destroy you, he'd wreck you, he'd tear you apart and watch you bleed, and he'd smile about it.
Wolves were nothing like foxes or coyotes or mountain lions or any of the creatures known to stalk farms and rural spreads.
Wolves weren't sly or cunning, and they weren't exactly brazen either. They were bold in a simplistic sort of way. They went after what they wanted—and that was that.
When coming face-to-face with a wolf, you had to square up and stare them straight in the eye. Running scared was to feel fangs sinking into your skin.
I wasn't going to run.
I set the remains of the box down, dusted off my hands, and straightened the ribbon belt at my waist. I wasn't afraid of this wolf, even if I knew he'd go for the throat if I gave him the chance.
He blinked at me with those eyes, wordlessly repeating his question. He didn't have to do anything but stand there to command my attention and he knew it.
"Did you say something?" I asked. "I couldn't be sure. I heard some grumbly sounds but not actual words. Was that you? With the grumbly sounds? Are you making those noises?"
"You"—he shook both hands at me—"that"—and the disemboweled box—"what-what-what the bloodyhellare you doing?"
I glanced at the mess in front of me. "Does it truly require explanation or do you simply enjoy having everything narrated for you?"
"Yeah, it requires some fucking explanation, Jasper. Why are you hauling this stuff yourself?"
"Because I can." And I was in no position to hire out for every little job.
He motioned toward the wet, fungal midden. "Obviously not."
"That was the box's malfunction, not mine," I shot back.
"You should not have been moving that box in the first place."
"Unravel that one with me, if you please. First, you're hot and bothered because I wasn't here to handle these things sooner. Then you're mad I came—and stayed. And now you have feelings because I'm taking care of the place? Do I have that right?"
His hands resting on his hips again, he turned a frown up the street. After a pause, he said, "Are there more?"
"Excuse me?"
"Are. There. More." When I didn't respond, he added, "Boxes, Jasper. Are there more boxes you need to be moved?
"Yes, however, I—"
"They're in the basement?"
I glared at him. "I'm not interested in your assistance."
"I'm not interested in watching another moldy carton disintegrate. Holler at me all you want," he said as he took off toward the house. "But that's all you're going to do."
"What business is it of yours?" I called, trailing behind him.
He thundered down the cellar stairs, each booted footstep smacking the treads like he meant for them to splinter in his wake.
In truth, I was slightly concerned those old stairs would not take kindly to the full force of Linden Santillian. And then what would we do, trapped in this watery grave of a basement? He'd yell, I'd yell, there would be a reason for me to put my hands all over his chest yet again.
Perfect. If perfect was a hell equally as dysfunctional as the one I'd left more than a week ago.
"I would advise you to respond when I ask a question," I said.
"I didn't figure you for a lawyer."
