But deep inside, I wanted more.
He didn’t say anything for a long time. He just held me, our bodies slick with sweat and spit and come, the sheets tangled under us like the aftermath of a bar brawl. The air was thick with the smell of us, sharp and sweet, and I breathed it in like it was the last clean air on earth.
Wrecker rolled me onto my side, tucked my back against his chest, and wrapped one arm around my ribs. He bent his head and pressed soft kisses to my shoulder, my neck, the line of my jaw. Each one landed with a sting of salt, and it took me a minute to realize I was still crying. Not loud, not even sobbing—just a silent, unstoppable leak that wet the pillow and glued the hair to my face.
He kissed away the tears, slow and patient. At first, I thought he’d tease me for it, call me a baby or a drama queen. But he just kept kissing, working his way from my temple to my lips, then back again.
Finally, he spoke, voice barely above a rumble. “Talk to me, Wren.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to.”
“Too fucking bad,” he said, but there was no anger in it. “You don’t get to run off inside your head and leave me out here.”
I tried to laugh. It came out a foreign sound. “You’re not exactly on my couch taking confessions either, you know.”
He wiped my cheek with his thumb, more gentle than I’d ever imagined he could be. “I’m here. Right now. Not going anywhere.”
I closed my eyes, letting the words settle. “I don’t know why I’m crying,” I lied. “Maybe just… it’s been a day.”
He grunted, unconvinced, but let it go. “You need anything?”
I shook my head again. But he was already moving, untangling himself from the sheets and crossing the room with that predatory, too-quiet stride. I watched as he ducked into the bathroom, rummaged around, and came back with a warm, wet washcloth. He knelt by the bed and started cleaning me up—between my thighs, over my belly, then my back where he’d left his mark. He did it with a kind of reverence, as if he was cataloging the places he’d broken me so he could fix them again.
When he finished, he tossed the cloth into the laundry basket and climbed back in. He grabbed the glass of water from my nightstand, held it to my lips, and watched while I drank. I was still shaking, but he didn’t mention it. He just pulled me close, draped his arm over my body, and pressed his nose into my hair. The weight of him was absolute. Immovable. I felt small, and for once it wasn’t a curse.
I didn’t want to sleep. I wanted to stay awake and memorize every second, every breath, every heartbeat. But exhaustion hit me like a tranquilizer dart, and I could feel myself sliding under.
Right before I let go, I heard his voice, soft and dangerous, right by my ear. “Someday,” he whispered, “I’m putting my mark right here. Where everyone can see.”
The thought sent a bolt of pain through my chest, but I didn’t say anything. I just curled into the hollow of his body, let the wolf in me whimper and keen, and waited for morning.
I dreamed of nothing, and woke to his arms still around me, the scent of oak and citrus thick in the air, and the echo of his words branded on my skin.
Chapter 9
Wrecker
Iwoke with a sheet wrapped around my ankles and the scent of her hair clogging my lungs. Pre-dawn in this house was a hollow thing—nothing but the ghosts of bad coffee and a woman’s perfume baked into the drywall. I watched the shadows on her ceiling as they crawled from gray to black, then rolled out of bed without waking her. I went to the guest room and let the pup out so he could relieve himself outside. He acted like he was thrilled to see me. It made me feel a weird joy inside. Which is a little insane. I’m a wolf, for God’s sake.
“Come on, you little shit. I’ll let you out.” He danced along beside me to the backdoor. I walked out onto the deck and watched as he ran around the yard and peed, and then made about a dozen circles before pooping. Everything the little guy did was funny. It’s no wonder she loved him. I was suddenly happy she had him.
I headed to the kitchen and started the coffee. No lights. Just the wet thump of my feet on cold hardwood. I opened the fridge. It wasn’t as bad as I’d guessed. Cartons of eggs, a shrink-wrapped ribeye, a carton of milk and some creamer. Lunch meat, of course, and some fresh veggies. I pulled out the eggs and the meat. Maybe she was turning over a new leaf and had decided to eat more than plain meat and bread sammies. I found her pans, steel and unscarred, lined up like surgical tools. Not what I expected. Shemust’ve bought them for show because she sure as shit never used them.
I cracked five eggs into a bowl. Shells hit the trash can with a click like tiny bones. The skillet went on the front burner. Then I trimmed the steak, fast and precise, and tossed the trimmings into the dog’s bowl. He devoured them in milliseconds. The steak hit the hot pan with a sizzle. The smell was savage. I smiled. A quick sear on both sides and then into the preheated oven. Fuck, I was starved from all the activity from last night.
I heard the shower running in the bathroom. Pipes vibrated in the walls. I pictured her standing there, steam curling over her skin, that pink-and-brunette mess of hair gone flat and dripping. The sound turned something in my chest molten.
I threw some butter into another pan and tossed in the eggs. I threw in a little cheese I’d found in a crisper drawer and some salt and pepper. When they were fluffy, I dumped them out into a bowl. She had bread, of course, from all the damn sandwiches she eats, so I buttered a few slices and threw them in the skillet for pan toast.
I’d gotten the steaks out of the oven and let them rest until she wandered into the room ten minutes later. She'd barely made any noise when she’d entered, but I caught her scent immediately—lavender and lemon. I turned and goddamn if she wasn’t the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, skin scrubbed pink and wearing black yoga pants and a tank that clung to her ribs like a desperate thing, formed around her round tits like a promise. The quarter-zip she wore was some eye-bleeding shade of pink.
“Have a seat.” I nodded to the table that sat in her breakfast nook.
She stood next to it. “Do I need to feed Rocket?”
“He just had a pretty good helping of ribeye trimmings. I think he’ll be fine.” I told her.
She looked irritated.
