“I’m not pack,” I say, plainly.
The confusion on his face turns to exhaustion.
“Iris, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, I have claimed you as my chosen mate, which makes you mine. Which means, yes, you are pack. And you are welcome at the howl.”
He wipes a bit more of my slick from my legs as he speaks, but when he’s through, he stands at his full height and challenges me with a single brow.
Part of the pack, huh?Me? The girl they all stare at? Sounds lovely.
“Do I have to go?” I ask, pouting even though I know I shouldn’t be.
“No, baby, you don’thaveto do anything.”
Great, that solves that. Or, at least it would. But try as I might, I can’t keep myself from asking the next question.
“Do youwantme to go?”
Elliot takes a step back to look at me. He isn’t frowning, but he isn’t smiling either, and I think he’s contemplating whether he wants to lie to me.
I can already see the answer in his face, but I’m sure a lie would be easier. Less troublesome than the truth. But for some reason, he decides not to.
“Yes,” he says, watching closely for my reaction.
I almost ask why. But it doesn’t really matter. After all that he does for me, a single bonfire seems like the least he could ask for.
“Okay.”
His smile returns in full force, but I ignore the little voice that tells me to reach out and touch it as I gather my things and head for the door.
He doesn’t follow me out. I assume he has some pack business to handle before the howl starts, which is fine with me, because I now remember what I was trying to say, and I’m not sure it bodes well for me.
I completely forgot to feed.
Chapter19
Do You Trust Me?
IRIS
It turnsout Elliot’s meticulously organized room does have some utility. It only takes me a few seconds to find the drawer of neatly folded t-shirts and sweatpants. I yank on the first pair sitting on top, tying the knot as far as it’ll go.
They’re a faded shade of red, the color having bled from years of washing, and I’m more than a little surprised to find that the peeling lettering on the pocket reads “Crossmoore High Varsity Pitchball.”
Elliot never struck me as the Pitchball type. Not because he doesn’t have the skill for it. But mostly because I figured he lacked the requisite patience for team sports.
I would’ve sooner pegged him as a Flight & Field guy. Although given his size, Pitchball makes more sense, I suppose.
It’s strange to be taken aback by something so ordinary, but these pants are the only thing here that really tells you anything about Elliot.
Well, that’s not strictly true. A blank page could tell you something about a person, depending on how they fold it, whether they save it, or throw it away. And Elliot’s room, with its careful organization and faintly medicinal scent, tells me he doesn’t want anyone to know him.
It’s like he’s scrubbed every ounce of himself clean from the very walls. But there are still these sweatpants. With the label that has his name scrawled in a handwriting I know isn’t his, and the spot on the left thigh that’s been rubbed raw from consistent scratching, or the teeth marks on the ends of the drawstrings.
I’d be willing to bet that if I check his other pants, they’ll have the same faded patch on the left thigh. Years of fidgeting, he never outgrew. I’d also bet that if I went into Dame’s room, I’d find a similar pair of sweatpants. Likely the reason Elliot ever signed up for Pitchball in the first place.
I decide not to rummage through his drawers to see what other “secrets” I can find, but I do take a moment to find his socks, digging through the pile until I find a pair that look like my feet won’t drown in them. I leave everything exactly as I found it before heading back downstairs.
Most everyone is already in the den, waiting for the festivities to start. But there are still a few people lingering in the hallways, slowly making their way, and a few who look like they’ll be staying behind.
