And that’s not cool. But damn, can you blame me? Her waist-to-hip ratio makes hourglasses look like cocktail straws.
Get it together, Xavier.
And it’s not just what we did to her abusive hubby. Something very wrong is going on here. That’s what I didn’t like when I discovered her in the lab room.
I can’t hear her fucking heartbeat.
What the fuck is up with that shit? That has never happened. I can hear everyone’s heartbeat. Hell, I can hear bugs running on the floor in the next room if I concentrate. Why can’t I hear this particular woman’s heart? Does she even have one?
When she was in there just now, Howard grilled me.
How come you didn’t know she was there?
No clue.
And why won’t you take her home?
You hear that? She’s telling him to fuck off.
That’s her way of paying respect to the monster on the table.
And what monsters dya think put him there? I’m not driving her. Got it?
He stopped pushing the ride.
“Where’s Dr. Peters?” she asks. Emerald green eyes cloud over even more as she straightens her blouse. Her soft cleavage slips into view for a fraction of a second. I look back up quickly and find her watching me. I can’t give this woman a ride home. I just can’t. It’s wrong.
Staring at her, I mutter, “I’m driving you home.”
She blinks and glances to my hands. I’m rubbing them together. She travels a slow glance up my forearms, as she mumbles, “No, you’re not I already told you.” Fire sparks behind her eyes.
Don’t give her a ride home. Leave and let her fend for herself. Or call her an Uber. Anything. Whatever you do, you can’t give this human female with the delicious pheromones a ride. Home or on your cock. Xavier. Come on. You just got laid two nights ago. Calm down boy.
“Fine. I’m not,” I grumble, heading for the door. Two steps away I demand, “You coming?”
“You’ve made such a tempting offer.” She’s standing with her arms crossed, tits hiked up.
Behind her, War pokes his head out from the other lab room. Like I need an audience.
I grind out through gritted teeth, “Look. I’m taking you home and that’s it.”
“Like hell you are!” she snaps, planting her feet even more firmly on the white tile. Emily Foster is looking at me like I’m beneath her, which pisses me off to no end. I’m used to women doing anything I say. And yeah, this is an extreme circumstance we’re in, but still. Why is she turning me down for a ride? She wants to take the bus over me? Bullshit to that.
“Dr. Peters,” I growl. “Something you want to say?”
War, like his old Howard self, dons a sheepish and embarrassed smile as Mrs. Foster turns around, surprised that he’s spying.
“Was just going to tell Mrs. Foster to have a nice day. And my condolences.” If I weren’t so irritated this would make me smile. But it doesn’t. She’s not amused either. He disappears.
“Look,” I begin, waiting for her to turn around to face me before I continue, “I’m going that way anyway. So stop acting like the bus is a better alternative. You’re hurting my feelings.” Okay, so that was filled with sarcasm.
Disbelief jumps out of her in the form of a forced laugh. “Please! Like you’re the insecure type. Cocky bastard is more like it. And you don’t know where I live! So how do you know you’re going in my direction, huh?”
Shit. Oops. Yeah I do know where she lives.
We all do. My whole pack.
But she doesn’t fucking know that.
Walking back to her, I lean down and get in her face. “Whatever way you live is the way I’m going.”
She slaps me. Hard.
Surprised, I don’t move.
Her beautiful green eyes go really large and her mouth slackens. I look at her lips, the inside moist and ready for a kiss. She closes them. Neither of us says anything. I can hear Howard’s heart in the other room picking up, so I know he heard that. But even though I’m trying like hell to hear hers, I’m getting nothing from this woman’s chest save for the catching of breath that would be audible to anyone.
Not only that, but something else is even more interesting than my not being able to hear her heartbeat. As soon as that slap came, I got a fresh whiff coming off her of something I’m not expecting. Arousal.
Glaring at me like she just might hit me again, she passes me for the door, without a word.
Well well well. Very interesting.
Xavier
I catch up to her with ease since my legs are so much longer than hers. “Where do you live?”
“I need to pick up my kids first. You’ll take me there.”
I smirk, “Oh, I will, huh?” So much for a fight.
“Yes.” She’s throws me a look filled with distaste, despite the sweet arousal drifting into my hungry nostrils from her lower region. “You will. If you’re going to treat me like an invalid you may as well help me in a way I really need.” Damn she smells tasty. My cock twitches in my jeans. Fuck licking her clavicle, from the heat coming off her as she shoots me another look, there’re other places that need attention. “Why are you staring at me?”
My eyes flash up to the sun and I blink into its fire. “Fine. Where are they?” She doesn’t answer right away. When she does, her voice catches. “School. God, what am I going to say to them?”
I glance over at her. The reminder of who she is and what she has to do now, reminds me that I’m an asshole for thinking about impaling her with my cock.
Truth is, I know all about the kids. We all know. Kara pretended to be one of their relatives and asked around to their school’s authorities ‘out of concern for her dear cousin Emily.’ She found out they’d been called into the Principal several times after their teachers noticed unusual bruising. Children fall down, but these were too often and too obviously not that.
I saw the kids because Kara showed us all pictures of them she’d taken with her phone when she watched them wait to get picked up from school. Two precocious little fuckers that couldn’t be any cuter. And the fact that they were holding hands in those pictures kind of broke my heart. Not that I told anyone that. But because of my pack, I have a thing for family, loyalty and sticking together. Those two tormented children standing there like that with their book-bags and hands held, like they were going to take on the world together, was heart-wrenching.
Jutting my chin toward the shiny black Jeep Wrangler I just bought last week, I mutter, “That’s mine.”
She and I walk to it in silence, but when I open her door she freezes and her eyelashes flutter up. She must really think I’m a prick if she’s surprised I opened it. I always open a door for women. It’s called manners. Plus, they love it. But with her, it’s different. I want to do it even more because of the way she holds herself. Anyone who looked at her would know she’s a lady. And this is how you treat one.
Feeling like I’m being judged and given the short end of the stick, I grumble, “What? You never have someone open the door for you?”
For a second she looks really vulnerable and I realize that she hasn’t had someone do this for her. Something as simple as opening a damn car door. God, that husband of hers did a real number on her.
And here’s me assuming it was her looking down on me. Dick move, Xavier. Think. You know her history.
But she doesn’t wilt like a broken flower at my question. As soon as the vulnerability rears itself, those emerald greens of hers spark up again with anger and pride. Like she’s really saying, ‘Fuck you,’ she informs me where I can find the elementary school. She climbs in, ignoring my hand to help her. Giving me the silent treatment she stares ahead with her hands primly on her thighs, the pencil skirt pulled tightly across them.
My wolf is running riot in my chest. I loved that fire I just saw in her. Loved it a little too much. Yeah, I got some action recently. And not long before that, with some other woman, too. But there’s something go
ing on here that’s stronger than that. I want to be her hands and touch those thighs. I want to run my tongue on the inside of them so badly my cock is twitching. My conviction to leave her alone is making my hunger grow. My wolf wants to conquer it and her. And this attitude she’s sporting, being so distant, ain’t helping any. The wall she’s got up — I want her to beg me to knock it down.
“You’re staring at me again, Xavier.”
“Buckle up.” I shut the door and walk around to the other side, taking my time staring at the weather-beaten asphalt. Why can’t I hear her heartbeat? Really…what the fuck?
A few miles and minutes later, the tiny pair of humans from the photographs clamor into the backseat of my Jeep. Both have hair and eyes the color of their mother’s, and skin so perfect they look like dolls. Their small hands grab onto whatever they can find to scramble themselves up. As the new widow helps them in I watch from the driver’s seat. Mrs. Foster is trying her best to smile and act like everything is okay. Her eyes are filled with love and sadness. Fuck, this is uncomfortable. I told War I didn’t want to drive her, and now look at me. I’m meeting the eyes of a small human child who’ll grow up to be a better man than his father now that he has the chance.
Six-year-old Michael asks with avid enthusiasm, “Did we get a new car?! Cool!”
“No, this isn’t ours,” Mrs. Foster murmurs.
Sofia, who is a year younger than her brother and so fragile she makes dandelions look hearty, stares at me. Her green eyes are a couple shades lighter than her mom’s. She is very shy, like she doesn’t know what to make of me. As Emily Foster buckles her son’s seatbelt, Sofia whispers something that makes my heart stop.
“Who’s the wolf man, Mommy?”
The little girl and I look at each other. I am fucking speechless. Are children really more in tune than their adult counterparts? I thought that was bullshit.
“Don’t be rude, Sofia,” Mrs. Foster exclaims. “He’s not a wolf man!” She cuts an embarrassed look my way. But my eyes are locked with Sofia’s. She’s just sitting there gazing at me with the kind of open curiosity only children are capable of. It’s unnerving as hell, like she sees everything and won’t be dissuaded that easily.
Confirming my suspicions, she ignores her mother’s objection and explodes with, “But he looks like a werewolf! I think he’s a werewolf!”
What. The. Fuck.
I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I have no idea what to do with myself.
Embarrassed, Mrs. Foster corrects her daughter, “He just has a beard and a bad attitude, that’s all.”
The mom and I lock eyes for a second and I raise an eyebrow. She turns and goes back to buckling in Sofia who is now squirming and reaching for her peach book-bag.
“Is this your car, Mr. Werewolf?” the boy asks.
His mother whispers, “Don’t call him that, Michael. It’s not nice.”
“Why not?” he asks her with pure innocence. “You said the werewolf on that show was—”
“MICHAEL!” Quickly collecting herself, she explains, “Because werewolves are monsters, that’s why.”
My ego knocks on my brain and begs me to defend myself. It takes a strong amount of will power to stay quiet. I want her to get them off my scent. I need her, too. But monsters? Really? C’mon.
“And this nice man…” Mrs. Foster throws me a sarcastic look. “…is kindly out of the goodness of his heart giving you a ride home. Sofia, what happened to your hair?”
“A boy spilled his orange juice on me at lunch!”
“Spilled it?”
Michael says, under his breath, “He poured it on her head on purpose.”
“He did what? Did you tell the teachers?”
“I took care of it, Mom.” His squeaky voice is filled with pride.
“What do you mean, you took care of it?”
“I punched him in the face!”
Aghast, she cries out, “What?!! Honey, you’re not supposed to hit people.”
“But he needed a lesson.”
The car goes quiet.
I glance to Sofia whose eyes have drifted to her lap, afraid her brother is about to get in trouble. Her little fingers are gripping the strap of the seatbelt. Five years old and already bracing herself for pain.
The pretty Mrs. Foster blinks a few times and wraps soft and loving hands around the back of her son’s head. She brings his forehead to her lips and kisses it. “We’ll talk about it later.”
She won’t look at me as she climbs in the front seat, closes the door and fastens her own seatbelt. Her face is flushed. She’s hoping I don’t know what that exchange meant. Even if I didn’t know about Sam Foster I would have known. I was a cop once upon a time and I know the signs of abuse, the ones people always think they’re hiding so well. I can see the truth of their pain just as clearly as if it glowed in flashing neon on their faces.
Turning the key in the ignition, we take off. Fast. The tiny humans squeal like they’re on a ride at Disneyland. I’m glad they’re entertained. That’s not why I’m doing it. I have to get all of them out of my fucking Jeep and now.
Daring the human female next to me to challenge my driving, I cut a look to her. Her lips are tight but she stares ahead and doesn’t say a word. Good. Glancing to the rearview I meet the eyes of Sofia and do a double take. She’s watching me. Like watching me watching me. And her eyes have a knowing smile in them like she wants to see the werewolf shift, so she can pet the pretty dog.
The only thing I’m going to shift is my eyes back to the road. That’s when I forget to ask for directions.
Emily
What am I going to tell them? That the years of walking around in fear are over? I can’t explain that. They’re too young to understand. Should I tell them that they don’t have a daddy anymore? Break their hearts? Sometimes Sam was kind. Usually after a night of terror he was on his best behavior out of guilt. He needed to convince himself he wasn’t a monster by convincing us. His kindness was confusing to me and to them, but after they realized it wasn’t a trick, they jumped on the chance to have a normal, loving father the same way New Yorkers enjoy the summer after five months of snow.
Biting my lip with worry, I stare out the windshield and realize suddenly that we’re getting close to our apartment, but I haven’t told him where we live. Tensing with surprise, I sit up straighter. What’s going on? How does he know where he’s going? Oh. He’s turning left. That’s not the right away. He doesn’t know where we live. Relaxing, I realize he’s winging it by driving and not asking directions like every other man on the planet would do. He was pretty close to target, not that I’ll tell him. It’ll just go to his already huge ego.
“No, we live over there.” I point back to where he should have turned right. My tone is flat.
Under his breath he says, “You didn’t tell me so I was just…”
“Right. Sorry.”
We sit in silence. We’re parting ways soon. I become acutely aware of his presence. Discreet as I can be, I study his profile from the corners of my eyes. But I don’t have a chance to get a really good look because suddenly I’m holding on for dear life as he whips the car around right in the middle of the road over a double yellow line. My children squeal in delight. Horrified, I start to object but stop as he glances over to see if I will, dark eyes challenging me. With a defiant look, I force my hands back to my legs and watch his eyes drift down with them. His gaze stays there as the car straightens out. He meets my eyes for a hot second and looks back at the road, beard ticking on a clenched jaw. A heat spreads out in my body. The look he just gave me. It was hungry.
He checks the approaching intersection for cars and drives right through a red light, glancing my way as we clear it safely. He’s baiting me. “There are children in the car,” I inform him. “Enough.”
His eyes flicker and he slows the car a bit. Then he looks over and holds my gaze, licking his lips once. With a loud crack of his neck, he grabs the wheel with both hands and s
tares out at the road like he’s forcing himself not to look at me. I’m sure I’m imagining that. But his knuckles go white under his grip. The muscles on his forearms clench and I follow them up his right bicep to his wide shoulders, then down his narrow waist and to his lap where my eyes go big. Either he’s huge or erect. Or both. I look away, chest rising quickly as my breath hitches. Most erotic ride-home-from-school ever.
Dammit Emily, get a hold of yourself.
This man is untamed, clearly.
You don’t need another one of those.
And yet…but maybe…
God, It’s been so long since a man who I’ve wanted has touched me.
“Up here on the left. That’s us,” I whisper.
Silent, he drives toward the dingy building we’ve called home ever since Michael was two. I stare at it wishing it wasn’t so pathetic. The paint job is terrible. There’s trash out front from people’s carelessness. I flush with embarrassment and am about to make an excuse when, without warning, Xavier calls to the backseat with his deep voice, “You kids want one last spin?”
They shout, “YEAH!” in ecstatic, high-pitched voices. “Go fast, Wolfman!”
Mortified, I grab the oh-shit handle and hold on as the Jeep does a screeching 360. My sweet little ones squeal with delight like we’re on Space Mountain. No one is coming in either direction. A grin spreads on my face despite myself, but as we pull to an abrupt halt I shove aside my careless joy and snap at him, “That was not safe!”
He shrugs and jabs a thumb at the backseat. “They loved it.”
“Well, they don’t know what’s best for them.” Xavier’s eyes cloud over and he looks away with tight lips, his beard ticking again. Only this time I’m pretty sure he’s not turned on.
“Would it kill you to say you’re sorry?” I mutter, not waiting for an answer as I jump out of the Jeep. He stays put, glowering at the windshield. “C’mon kids. Say goodbye.”
Werewolves of Chicago: Xavier Page 2