Both she and the healer, Rissa, have been taking turns seeing to my son despite my best attempts to assure them that I can manage it all, just as I have been all my life.
Truthfully, the assistance and support do help, allowing me to take a casual stroll through Girdwood and admire the soft blanket of snow covering the village. Knowing that the pack has moved on and couldn’t care less about my past, I’m able to breathe easily without that worry hanging over my head.
I hug my arms across my chest, letting the gentle whiffs of snow kiss my cheek and cool my naturally hot temperature. When a snowflake perches on my nose, I slow down and giggle, and have the profound thought that I can’t remember when I last allowed myself a moment to breathe.
Despite Aurora’s intrusive question still plaguing me, now that I’ve come to realize that I’m not the most despised outcast in Snehvolk anymore, I don’t really have any reason to want to leave.
Except, there’s Dawson, and the thought of him immediately ends my moment of glee as I redirect my vision to his house nestled near the forest up ahead.
I’m just about to make my way toward the cottage when a howl rings out to signal the return of the alphas.
According to Aurora, the alphas have been spending their recent days hunting down the demon that plagues the pack.
But there’s another miserable, despondent wolf wail that drifts through the air, closer to the east side of the forest, that keeps me frozen. It’s not fear that renders me immobile, but a certain curiosity that has me waiting to see who comes out.
As if I don’t know.
As if I’ve been expecting him.
Golden tresses of fur flow out as Dawson’s wolf emerges from the forest, his beady blue eyes downcast as he slowly trots toward his house. Once he’s near the porch, he shifts into human form, and that’s when I notice blood splattering out on the wooden platform.
Gasping, I have the sudden urge to rush forward and ask what happened when his hand covers a ripped part of his sweater near his ribs, and rich crimson blood gushes through his fingertips.
He’s been wounded, and he’s bleeding out. But the alpha remains unbothered as he pulls open the sliding glass door, takes a staggering step inside, then casually slides the door closed behind him.
Why am I still standing here, lurking in the shadows of his garden, watching as he calmly rips the rest of the sweater off his body while he stands at the mirror beside his fireplace?
My eyes dart to his reflection, my bottom lip slipping loose when I see his tantalizing features, the way the muscles on his torso flex as he tends to his injuries.
There’s a part of me that wants to go over there and help him, my softer, compassionate instincts remembering the feelings I had for him and wanting to act on them.
In hindsight, when I thought I was in love with Dawson, I would have done anything to care for him. Now, my fingers tingle with the desire and sudden urge to do just that, remnants of my feelings surfacing to remind me of what I felt.
But it’s more than that. Now, as I stand in the shadows of nightfall over Girdwood, watching Dawson flick his dripping hair back as he concentrates on wiping his wounds, I find myself falling down a rabbit hole.
The tip of my tongue skims my bottom lip as my eyes trace every contour of his muscles sheathed in flawless honey-golden skin. I travel my gaze to the fine line of hair just below his belly button that narrows into his trousers, promising the sweet pleasures beyond his happy trail. That’s when a flicker of awareness sparks between my thighs, the recollection of our fateful night of pleasure awakening from the depths of what I thought I’d long buried.
My eyes flit back up to Dawson’s face, contorted with focus, with his tongue pressed into his cheek. The sweat beading on his skin makes my mouth water, and I have the unwarranted desire to lick the droplets—
No!
I catch myself just as a hand goes to my throat, stroking it as I recall what it felt like to have Dawson’s lips marking my flesh in the most sinful places.
I shouldn’t be having these thoughts about him. The last time I did, I acted on it and ended up with a broken heart.
Apart from not fully trusting the pack as a whole, I have no reason to trust Dawson either. He’d hurt me once before, and he could do it again if I allowed him to.
I won’t allow him to do that, and entertaining my fantasies will get me nowhere except for heartbreak. Despite the lust punching holes in my gut, I have to rebuild my armor of indifference, sticking to the shadows that will get me to the log cabin behind his house, where I’m safe from being found out that I’m still affected by his presence.
He doesn’t need to know what he does to me.
I won’t allow him to find out. Especially when I can hardly believe it myself.
I should hate the alpha, and there’s no place for baser desires to rear their ugly heads and tilt my world off its axis.
He hurt me before, and he can do it again. This time, I won’t allow myself to fall victim to his charms, even if all he has to do is breathe without knowing that I’m watching him for me to be so hot for him.
Chapter 8 - Dawson
