“You boys tormented me with those damn worms. This picture is the proof.” She giggles.
“You were such a prissy girl. Real easy to tease.” I grin, looking at a very young Shavone.
She smiles up at me and slides that photo to the back of the stack. In the next one, Shav is holding a small fish. “Do you know that that is the first and last fish I’ve ever caught?”
“You were so proud. Took you all damn day to catch that one tiny fish.” I chuckle, cupping my hand around the back of her head. How can hair be so soft?
“And then you made me throw it back.” She playfully elbows me in the ribs.
“He wasn’t legal.” I grin, caress her head, the movement releasing her potent scent.
The next photo in the stack is of all us — the girls’ mom, my dad, Val, Kin, me and Shav. We’re gathered around a picnic table, saying cheese to the person taking the photo.
I take the stack of photos from her hand and leaf through them, again. I stop at one of me comforting Shav after she had thrown the fish back in the water. She must’ve been about eleven. That fall Kin and I left for ROTC.
“You were so sweet at that age,” I murmur, touching my finger to the photo.
“And now I’m just an old sourpuss? Is that what you’re trying to say?” She teases, bopping me with a pillow.
Easily deflecting the pillow, I laugh.
“It’s nice to hear you laugh,” she says. “It’s so rare from adult Nash.”
“I know.” I stare at her. My smile droops just a bit. “It’s all so fucking complicated now — you’re more complicated.”
“So are you,” she frowns.
“I guess we all are.” I bob my head.
The hardest thing I ever did was leave Shavone behind when I left for college. After four years away, Shav had changed into a young woman, blossoming in all the right places. I was so ashamed of the way my wolf and my body reacted to her. At that point, I didn’t know how to be around her anymore. So, I just wasn’t — avoiding her as much as possible that summer. In August, I left for the army — rarely coming home those years.
Shavone lifts another stack of photos. These are of her teenage years — when I was gone — to the east coast and, then, Iraq. I recognize Dillon in the pictures.
The Alliance insisted a wolf Shav’s age be assigned to protect her during high school. The Nation chose Dillon — brought him and his brother from Louisiana to Colorado Springs and moved them into a house across the street from us.
On a call home, Dad told me that Dillon attached to Shav. By all accounts, the two were inseparable.
I swallow a stab of jealousy. She was safe and, by the looks of it, happy. She’s smiling and laughing in just about every photo. He was good to her and a good wolf. He saved her life pulling her from the fire that killed her mom and my dad.
That fire changed everything. That the hunters got so close to Shavone rattled the Alliance, kicking the protection of the Soft sisters into high gear.
“I’m so glad you came home, Nash,” Shavone says, almost reading my mind.
“Me, too,” I murmur. I came home for their funeral, and stayed, getting a job with Denver PD and doing reserves to finish my army commitment. Even if the Alliance hadn’t assigned me to her, I would’ve stayed. No way could I leave with her and Val in danger.
She lays her head on my shoulder, so sweetly. Sifting through the photos of her past, she slows on a series that look like prom. I recognize a few Shav’s girlfriends along with Dillon. All of them dressed up.
“He loved you,” I murmur. Fuck it’s written all over his face. In most shots, he’s looking at Shav rather than the camera.
“And I loved him.”
I caress her head, hoping she doesn’t start crying.
The kid was killed in action three weeks into his Middle East tour. I was here when Dillon’s brother came to this little shack to tell her the news. I will never, as long as I live, forget Shav’s howl of pain. She laid in bed for days, not eating, barely responding when spoken to — only leaving the house for his funeral. Finally, Val brought her mom’s book of shadows and did a spell to ease Shavone’s heartbreak.
Shavone shifts, her eyes glassy, she puts the photos in the moving box and pulls a length of packing tape from the dispenser. She seals the box of mementos and sits back on her heels.
“You don’t have to do this right now. Why don’t you get some sleep and start fresh in the morning.”
I stand, pick up the box and stack it on three others she’s already packed. As I do, her phone chimes. A glance at the caller ID says it’s Cherie.
“Great,” I mumble.
“There’s beer in the fridge,” Shav says.
I go grab one.
“Hey, midnight check in,” she says into the phone.
I lean on the kitchen counter and try not to listen to the gab fest. It’s hard — my wolf hearing combined with Cherie’s voice. She’s alright, seems to be a good friend for Shav, but the girl hates me. No idea why.
“What was up with Nash tonight?” Cherie asks. “Holy hell, the way he grabbed that guy by the throat.”
“I take full responsibility. My dress was too short and I shouldn’t have teased Ben” — Shavone is cut off.
“Oh, no, it wasn’t. There’s no law preventing you from flaunting what you got. Men are allowed to look and think whatever they want. The second it comes out of their mouth, it’s game on.”
Shav laughs lightly. She’s not convinced. Neither am I. Good to know it wasn’t my imagination. She was showing her ass to Ben at every opportunity — and to the rest of the men in the bar — to me — at the same time.
Cherie goes on with her analysis of the evening. “I was surprised with you tonight, S.”
“How so?”
“I’ve never seen you flirt with a guy like that. You’re either are a great secret agent or you really like him.”
“I really like him, C,” Shav murmurs.
Damn it. I’m a fucking fool, shoving her and Ben together.
“But I shouldn’t have come on so strong in a public place.”
“Hmmm. Still that fat guy was a douche and Nash has white knight syndrome.”
I do?
“Oh, his wolf was pissed, Shav. I thought he was going to shift right there in the bar.”
I thought so, too.
“How’d you make out with him? Did you make out with him?” Cherie giggles.
“What do you mean?”
“Once more in English,” Cherie says. “Did you and Ben make out?”
“Not really.”
I snort. My cousin struck out? She just admitted she’s into him and he backed off?
“What do you mean not really? Did he kiss you?” Cherie persists.
“Yes.”
“Well, spill,” Cherie demands. “Does he kiss as good as he looks?”
Not wanting to hear any more, I take my beer to the front porch, sit on the top step. White-knight syndrome? That’s a laugh. What I want to do to Shav isn’t chivalrous at all. No, what I have is simple raging jealousy combined with a continuous walking hard-on.
I want Shavone and I’m done waiting. She’s all grownup and she’s mine.
Cherie and Shav chat for a few more minutes. Shav mentions her fall classes and some professors she’s looking forward to. When they hang up, I go back inside.
“Hey.” She looks up through her lashes. “I didn’t apologize to you for tonight.”
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”
Other than being a cock tease.
“I behaved abominably at the bar.”
“You looked hot.” I shrug. “And you knew it.”
“Ugh.” She buries her face in her hands. “I’m mortified.”
I chuckle. “Cherie’s right. There’s no crime in what you did.”
Her brow creases. “But you were really angry at me.”
“I was mad, but not at you, baby.”
“Then,
who?”
“The drunk guy who drooled over your ass.” My cousin. Myself.
I peel her hands off her face, and smile at her. “You may want to dial back your sex appeal in public. Some of us men are controlled by our cocks.”
Her jaw drops and her eyes widen. Just as fast, her mouth closes and eyes narrow. I’ve never said anything like it to her before — never mentioned her body or sex. That’s going to change, too.
“You look beat,” I lie. What she looks is sexy as hell. That t-shirt is big on her, but leaning the way she is, it’s obvious she isn’t wearing a bra. Damn. I want to slide that t-shirt up, wrap my mouth around a nipple and suckle forever.
Blood floods my cock and I consider making my first move. The furrow in her brow says it’s not a good idea. She’s confused by what I just said. I’m going to have to take this seduction step by step so I don’t freak her out. “Why don’t you go bed? Packing will wait ’til the morning.”
While I go home and rub another one out in the shower.
She shakes her head. “Ben’s taking me to breakfast and then apartment hunting in the morning.”
“Is he now?” My voice hardens and so does my resolve.
chapter thirteen
IT’S DARK AND wet. The dead of a rainy night and I’m running as fast as I can — slipping and sliding on the mud. Running and running. But I’m a child and the scary adults chasing me have longer legs. A hand touches my shoulder. I scream and shift to the right out of its grasp. There’s no ground! No ground! My feet kick, desperately.
Splash. Into the cold water I go, flailing and screaming. I bang my head on a rock and the raging storm swells pull me under.
The mean people on the banks cheer. “Good riddance. Death to all witches,” says one angry male voice. “Death to all witches,” more voices echo his sentiment.
The icy water seizes my lungs and blessed blackness wants to overtake me. A part of me is grateful. Yes. This horrible night will finally be over. No! A loud voice ricochets in my mind. The water roils high, pitching me up. I gasp, gulping in oxygen. There’s sharp pain in my arm. It’s a wolf. A little wolf biting my arm, tugging me out of the water. The cub nuzzles my face, licks my tears, lays on me, warms me, saves me.
Opening my eyes, I blink at the ceiling.
I try to calm my heartbeat with a deep breath. The fear and bone chilling wetness of that dream always feel so real. At least I woke before the knife and the blood this time.
Pulling the covers up to my chin, I sink deeper into the warm mattress.
The nickel-sized coral pendant feels like a heater where it lays on my chest, comforting me. That’s why I wear it— day and night, no matter what — even in the shower. I’ve always had it. Mom said I was wearing it when the wolves found me.
The bite is real. I have the scars to prove it. I wrap my arms around myself — touching the spots on my bicep.
The dream used to wake me nightly when I was very young. During adolescence, it went away. Or, at least, it didn’t wake me. After the fire, though, it came back with a vengeance. The voices in the dream sound identical to the voices of the arsonist hunters from that night. For months, I’d wake drenched in fear. Slowly, the dream went away, again. In fact, I haven’t dreamt it in a while.
Why now? Something was different this time. It was the wolf’s eyes. They were different this time, familiar to me.
Holy shit.
I sit bolt upright in bed.
They were Cruz’s eyes. No. That’s preposterous. It’s my mind reacting to the stressful interview yesterday. Cruz touched the scars. That’s why. The dream analyzed to a satisfactory answer, I get up. Trying to go back to sleep after waking from the nightmare is futile.
A hot shower takes the last of the chills from my skin. I dress and get back to packing. Three hours later, right at eight, there’s a knock at my door.
Arms loaded with books and trapped by boxes, I call out, “Come in.”
The door opens and Ben’s head peeks around it. “Shavone?” He calls out.
“Over here.” I wave from behind a wall of boxes.
He beams when he sees me. He comes all the way in and closes the door. He glances around at my place and all the boxes. “Whoa. You’ve been a busy little kitten.”
I return his smile and set the books back on the bookcase. Then, look for a way out of my trap. “Ah. I’ve literally boxed myself in.” I laugh.
“Here.” He shifts boxes off one column making it shorter.
I move, meaning to step over a box. But, with hardly any effort on his part, he holds out his arms and lifts me at my waist, setting me down right in front of him. He keeps his hands on me.
“Sir Benjamin, my hero,” I say, grinning.
“My lady.” Smiling, Ben bows. He pecks me lightly on the mouth. I sense he wants a deeper kiss, but he steps back to look around. “You got a lot done.”
“Yep.” Nothing like worry, nightmares and insomnia to get a job done.
“You okay?”
“Nope.” I grin. “I’m ravenous.”
“Me, too.” He smirks.
Oh, more innuendo.
I smile. “For food.”
“Well, then, let’s get a move on.”
I grab my purse, slip on my sandals and lead him out.
“Where’s the nearest breakfast place?” He asks, a hand at my lower back.
“We have two options. Fantastic breakfast panini and Ethiopian coffee or another place with heartier fare.”
“Hearty, please. I won’t last an hour on a panini.”
“Jelly U it is.” I head to the drive, eyeing his vintage muscle car.
He opens the passenger door for me.
“What kind of car is this?”
“It’s a Boss Mustang.” He closes the door and hurries around to the driver’s side.
I frown. “I thought Mustangs were Fords.”
“Hot damn. A girl who knows cars.”
I laugh. “Don’t get excited. That was the extent of my knowledge about Mustangs.” I fondle the leather upholstery.
Male pride evident in his expression, Ben explains. “This baby is a 1969 Ford Boss 469 Mustang.” He starts the car and the deep rumble of the engine sounds sexy even to me.
Pretending to be enthralled, I run my fingers over the dash and then open the glove compartment. Not sure what I’m looking for — a map or a note from Val? But there’s nothing in the compartment except the owner’s manual, a pair of sunglasses and a baseball hat.
Ben laughs. “Looking for something?”
“Just curious.” I swallow and, so my snooping isn’t too obvious, I quickly divert. “Is the car original?” I pull out the booklet.
“Some parts. The manual.” He points to the dog-eared book I hold. “And the most important part of the car.”
“Which is?” I put the book back.
“The engine,” he says, askance that I didn’t know that. “Except for a few parts, the engine is mostly original. The interior, though, is new, and” — he waves his hand in front of the vintage radio and the facade on the console slides aside to reveal a modern digital display — “custom built, state of the art electronics.”
My jaw drops open. “So James Bond-esque.”
He laughs. “Hannah. Music on.” He states authoritatively.
“What genre, sir?” Hannah, the car, speaks back.
I laugh.
“Old soul, right?” Ben confirms with me.
I shrug. “And new.”
“Hannah. Play Al Green.”
With a light click and hum, we’re audibly surrounded by Tired of Being Alone, one of my favorite songs.
“Wow. You’re double-oh-seven, aren’t you?” I smile, impressed.
“LaFontaine,” he says, mimicking James Bond. “Benjamin LaFontaine.”
I laugh. “Ah, hah. So you’re an international spy.”
Ben laughs, too. It’s a nice sound. I smile and listen to him sing along to the music.
The restaurant is close, so we arrive just as the song finishes. I point at the sound system. “How can I get one of these?”
“You can’t. It’s custom, one of a kind built by a buddy of mine.”
Ensconced at a corner table at Jelly U, Ben peruses the menu. “What’s good here?”
“Everything.”
“Shavone, babe.” The waiter sets down two glasses of water and hugs my shoulders.
“Hi, Garrett.” I smile and make the introduction between him and Ben.
“Have you heard from your sister?” He asks.
I look at my fingers and shake my head. “Not a peep.”
“Aw, Shav.”
“I haven’t given up. Thank you for caring.”
Ben sips water, studies my face as I talk to Garrett.
“Always, babe. Now, what can I get you two?” Garret says.
“Ladies first,” Ben mumbles.
“I’ll have granola, yogurt, a side of fruit and a cappuccino.”
Garrett turns to Ben. “Sir? What would you like?”
I stifle a laugh, because Garrett’s flirting with Ben is so obvious.
“Call me Ben, please. I’ll have the Haco Benedict and coffee — black.” Ben finds Garrett amusing.
“Excellent choice, Ben.” Garrett winks, smiles and heads back to the kitchen.
“Fuck.” Ben chuckles. “Do I look gay?”
“You look hot.” I grin at him. “Even though Garrett’s in a committed relationship, he flirts with everyone — male or female. It’s all about tips.”
Mischief dancing in his eyes, Ben leans across the table. “So do you.”
“Hang on now. I do not flirt with everyone.”
“Good to know.” Ben smiles. “But I meant you look hot.”
I raise a dubious eyebrow. I’m in my summer uniform of choice — OOFOS sandals, worn-denim skirt and a thrifted t-shirt. “What? This old thing?” I motion at the red Coors t-shirt.
“Great beer covering beautiful boobs. Doesn’t get any hotter than that.”
In a moment of unguarded playfulness, I flick his forearm with my middle finger.
“Ow.” Ben laughs. “What I meant to say is that I love that t-shirt.”
Soft Shatter (Wolven Moon Book 1) Page 9