Gods, he’s such an idiot. He’s going to get himself sanctioned over some girl.
Then again, wolves of a feather, or whatever they say.
Iris is still making her best attempt at sleeping when I enter the room, and I stand by the bed watching her chest rise and fall for a little while.
I’ve never pictured someone in my bed before. It always seemed out of the question. Not impossible, but why would I burden some poor girl with my claim, knowing I have nothing but friendship to offer her? I may be heartless, but I am not cruel. So I’ve never imagined a moment like this before. But now that it’s in front of me, I’m glad it’s Iris.
If I could mate, I imagine my wolf would choose someone like her. Someone for whom it would heel. Who else but Iris is capable of that?
Not many women have the balls to threaten me. Even fewer have the bite to back it up.
I picture her commanding me to sit and stay; I picture her feeding from me for the rest of my days, however few they may be; and I picture her taking my knot and crying my name over and over. If only for a moment, I allow myself to dream of her.
But a moment is all it is, because no matter how badly I wish we could stay this way, I would never doom her to this loveless life with me. She deserves so much more than that.
I do my best to rouse her gently, but she wakes with a start.
She shoots up to a seated position, eyes scanning the room before settling on my face.
“Oh, gods. Elliot. You scared the shit out of me. What’re you?—”
She stops, taking in the room once more, then frowns.
“You promised,” she pouts, pushing out her bottom lip.
“No, I didn’t,” I answer, failing to stifle the stupid grin on my face.
Her face is puffy with sleep, and she glares at me through the dark slits she calls eyes before rubbing her fists over her lids, trying to seem more awake.
“Elliot…” she scolds me, still swiping at her eyes.
“What? You were snoring. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“I do not snore,” she says.
No, she’s right, she doesn’t. She actually sleeps like a mouse. Probably the quietest I’ve ever seen her. I hated it.
“Who cares?” I say. “All you did was sleep.”
Sleep like she was trying to crawl inside my ribcage, but sleep all the same.
She looks like she’s about to accept this answer, but then notices her missing pants and returns to scowling at me.
“Where are my pants?” she snaps.
I point to the ball of faded red fabric on the floor. She’d tossed them out from under the covers sometime in the night, and frankly, it was so funny I never thought to pick them up.
“You did that,” I say, hands up. “Swear on my life.”
“On Dame’s life,” she corrects. “We both know you don’t care about yours.”
Touché.
“Yes, princess, I swear on Dame’s life.”
The scowl simmers to her usual frown, and I can’t resist pressing a kiss to her forehead as I pass her my pants.
If I’m not mistaken, the little wrinkle between her brows dissipates as my lips meet her skin, but knowing this is as far as I can go, I try not to think about that.
