My wolf stands, alarmed.
No. Another state? Another city?
She’s going to leave us?
Chapter Fourteen
Grayson
The porch is cold enough that my breath fogs in the air.
I don’t mind. The cold has never bothered me the way it bothers humans. My wolf runs hot, and right now it’s running hotter than usual, pressing against the inside of my skin like it wants out. It’s been like this for an hour. Two, maybe. I stopped keeping track somewhere around the time I finished my second beer.
I turn the bottle in my hands until the label comes loose at one corner. I keep pulling at it mindlessly, needing something for my hands to do while my head runs through the same loop it’s been running for two hours.
My wolf wants to run. That’s all. It wants to shed everything human about me and drive itself into the woods until there’s nothing left but muscle and wind and dirt.
How long have I known Miranda?
Maybe a few months now? Two months? Three?
I don’t know.
It feels like she’s been in my life forever. As if every part of me has had her presence etched into it all along.
I won’t be able to find a job here. Maybe if I leave the city, maybe in another state.
I’m going to lose her. I look numbly across the garden.
This is what I wanted. The bond hasn’t had time to cement, hasn’t had time to form any sort of concrete connection…so why does it feel like my heart is being ripped out of my chest?
It’s been hours since our conversation, and she’s now asleep in my bed, Ethan snuggled by her side. And I’ve been out here, trying to convince myself to—
I tilt my head back, staring at the sky. Good. This is for the best. The Accord will never let me be with her. I can set her up in a good place, make sure she’s financially taken care of. Even if she doesn’t want to work, she won’t have to. I can…
My thoughts trail off like they’ve been doing this whole evening.
I take a long pull of the beer and set it on the railing.
Somewhere behind me, the house shifts. I hear a creak on the kitchen floorboard, the soft drag of feet that don’t lift all the way. I’m through the back door before the sound finishes, moving quietly so I don’t startle her.
Miranda stands in the middle of the kitchen in my shirt and the sweatpants that are three sizes too large for her, held up at the waist with a white-knuckled grip. Her hair is loose, tangled from sleep. She’s trying to pull open the fridge door.
“It has a child lock,” I murmur, and she lets out a small squeak, stumbling backward. I catch her before she can hit the island counter. Her waist is so small. Everything about her is small and delicate. And thin. She’s so thin, as if she doesn’t eat enough.
Her eyes are wide as she turns. I try not to show the effect she’s having on me and steady her. “Did you need something?”
“Water,” she mutters, her eyes darting to the side. Her stomach chooses that moment to call out her lie, and I hide my small smile.
“You want the stew.”
“I just told you—”
“Sit down, Miranda.” I pull her gently to one of the stools, and picking her up, I deposit her on it.
Taking the stew from the fridge, I heat it on the stove. The kitchen is silent apart from the sounds of our breathing and the soft spluttering of the boiling stew. Miranda is a few feet from me, and her scent is so sweet, so comforting that it makes me wonder why I couldn’t tell before that she was mine.
I put the bowl before her, and when she takes the spoon, I can see that her grip on it is unsteady. After watching her struggle for a few seconds, I reach over and take it from her.
