My fingers dig into soft soil as I shake off the lingering pain and push up onto my feet.Fuck.I run my hand through my hair, ignoring the dirt I’m streaking through it.
My wolf wants to claim her. In a very permanent way. It’s un-fucking-convenient. But it doesn’t change the fact I need to see Isa, and recognizing that makes me feel all sorts of ways that I don’t want to think about.
I know she’s home. I know she’s safe. I need to let this insatiable need to see her go, but, dammit, I fucking can’t. I’ll be distracted until I know without a shadow of a doubt that she’s okay.
* * *
Forty minuteslater I’m pulling up to her house—if you can even call it that. I got the address from Zheng, the fucker. He wasn’t thrilled to give it to me but it’s not like I gave him much of a choice.
Isa’s place has got to be close to ten thousand square feet or more. It’s got twin pillars flanking the front door and massive floor-to-ceiling windows on all sides of the house. The lawn is perfectly kept and rose bushes ring the grass perimeter. This place rivals even the Compound in sheer size alone, and that’s saying something, because the Southwest Pack Compound is home to roughly sixty-five shifters. More live in the surrounding clan houses. But this is insane. All that house for two people?
For a minute I idle in front of the place, staring at the front door as though I canwillher to step out of it. I press down the gas, letting the roar of the engine fill the street, and a flutter of movement at one of the second-story windows pulls my gaze.
Isa peaks through pale pink curtains and I incline my head. She huffs and the curtains close. I wait. She knows I’m here. She’ll come.
A few short minutes later she’s closing the front door behind her. Wearing white jeans and an oversized hoodie, she stops beside my car and frowns. “What are you doing here?” She tucks her hair behind her ear, her eyes are still red but the strain on her face from earlier is gone. My shoulders relax and I tilt my head toward the passenger door.
“Get in.”
She shakes her head. “What do you want, Rafael? Shouldn’t you be dealing with Pack business or something?”
I try to tamp down my irritation at her refusal. “Nah. All taken care of. Come on.” She’s still not moving. “Get in the car, Isabella.” Something about saying her full name gets a reaction out of her, and with a muttered curse, she’s opening the passenger side door and slides inside. “Put on your seatbelt.”
She does.
Thank fuck for small favors.
We ride in silence for the first ten minutes before I take her to a different side of town where the suburban streets turn to gravel roads and we ride out into shifter territory.
“Where are we going?” she asks just as I pull up in front of a familiar house nestled in the back of the Pack’s sprawling two-hundred-acre property.
“My place.” I’m not entirely sure why I’m taking her home with me. She’s not Pack. She has no business being here. But I want her beside me. I need to know that she’s okay.
I pull into the driveway of a three-bedroom, ranch-style home and put the car in park. “Come on.”
Isa gets out slowly. She keeps her motions tight and I don’t miss her wince. Fuck. I forgot about her rib. I’ll need to make sure she’s properly wrapped it while she’s here.
She checks her surroundings with an inquisitive stare, her eyes soaking everything in. “This is where you live?”
I nod, searching for any sort of reaction, but all I see is open curiosity. I release a breath. There’s no judgment in her gaze as she takes in the stucco exterior of my home or the fact that the garage door is wide fucking open and my garage looks like a second living room packed full of mismatched sofas with a pool table in the middle. I know she hasn’t lived with Kline long, but I don’t know what life was like for her before the now. I don’t know if what I have compares to what she’s grown up with. I’m not ashamed of my home. It’s plenty good enough for me. But something makes me worry if it’s good enough for her. If I’m good enough for her.
A car drives up behind us, gravel crunching as it slows to a stop. The driver door opens and closes as a voice calls out, “Yo, what’s for dinner?” Jordy heads straight toward us. Noisy bastard.
“What’s—”
“We’re neighbors,” I tell her as he nears. “His house is the one right over there, through the trees.” I point toward his partially concealed home on our left. If you look just right, you can make out the large bay window and brightly painted yellow door. A constant reminder of a time when Jordy’s mom was around. Before she left the Pack and all of her children behind with barely a backward glance.
“Please tell me your mom’s going to feed me. Your pops is killing me with these twelve hour patrols and I need some fucking calories in me before my stomach decides to eat itself.”
“Come on,cabrón. Let’s see what she’s got.”
Isa follows behind and as soon as we’re inside, we’re enveloped in the heady smell of my mother’s cooking.
“Mamá,” I shout into the house, knowing she can’t be far and that her acute shifter hearing would have heard our arrival. I check the stove, lifting the lid off a large stockpot, finding fresh warm tamales steaming inside.
“Hijo, no toques,”Don’t touch that,she admonishes just as she turns a corner. I’m about to ask her what’s wrong, because my mom only ever makes tamales for two occasions. A holiday like Thanksgiving or Christmas, or because my pops is upset about something—usually where I’m concerned—and she’s trying to smooth things over the only way she knows how. With food. But before I can ask, she spots Isa and her eyes widen in surprise.
“You brought home a girl?” Her accent is thick, but her English is clear as she takes Isa in from head to toe and a wide smile spreads across her face.Fuck. I don’t think I thought this all the way through.
