The motherfucker had definitely gotten in his head. Maybe Hollis was right. He sure as hell hoped so. “Maybe.”
“We’ll call when we’re fifteen minutes out. See you soon.”
“Soon,” he said, hanging up the phone. He felt it then: the pack. That internal leash tying him to them. Irritated or angry, betrayed or furious, it didn’t matter—they were still a part of him. Even if he wished that weren’t the case.
“How’d it go?” Olivia asked, leaning against the wall behind him. “Are we meeting them somewhere?”
“Finn will fly in,” he said, glancing at her. It had been the two of them until now. Since she was his responsibility, he owed her some information. “We should talk.”
Her brows rose. “We? You mean, you’re going to talk?” She smiled. Then she frowned. “Wait, is this a good talk or a bad talk?”
Watching her was fascinating. Her features were fluid, revealing her thoughts before she said a thing. And she said plenty. But it was his turn. When she opened her mouth to say more, he pressed his fingers to her lips to stop her.
Touching her mouth was a bad idea. Her lips were silky soft. The shudder that rippled from her head to her toes told him she was eager. She’d said she thought about his kiss and wanted more. This touch, light as it was, was all it took to warn him he might want the same thing. He traced the shape of her mouth, the line of her jaw, cursing his stupidity but unable to stop touching her.
Her hand fastened around his wrist, holding on to him. She wanted him; he wanted her. But his wolf—her wolf—complicated things.
And things were getting dangerous.
“We’re not doing this,” he hissed, pressing her back against the wall. “You hear me?”
She nodded. But her gaze was fixed on his mouth.
He gripped her shoulders. “Olivia?” The desperate hunger in her gaze had his wolf howling and him reeling. She shouldn’t look at him like that. She didn’t understand that she was playing with fire.
The air crackled between them, wrapping them together in a way that made him forget anything else existed. His wolf wanted him to give in. Dammit, he wanted to give in.
“Mal,” she whispered. “This isn’t the ripple-wavy thing, is it? This is just more of the me and you thing?”
His nod was stiff.
If he were smart, he’d drag her back to their table and wait for Finn’s phone call. He’d put space between them, stop touching her. But he’d relied on his instincts for so long.
He tilted his head, running his nose along her temple and across the bridge of her nose. Her lips were soft beneath his, but her hands gripped his shirtfront fiercely. She was shaking, but dammit, so was he. His lips lingered, absorbing the flavor of her—the feel of her. When his fingers slid into her hair, he didn’t know. The silken threads caressed his fingers. In a hard world, Olivia was the embodiment of soft. One he wanted to protect. One he wanted to claim.
He stiffened slightly, his wolf’s demand echoing in his ears.
Olivia would never be his mate.
His grip tightened on her hair. But it was Olivia that wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him to her. It was her lips that clung to his, urging them apart so her tongue could trace the length of his and almost bring him to his knees. She was the aggressor, her fingers tugging his hair, her moans greedy and frantic.
Her lips fastened on his neck, her tongue and teeth nipping and sucking until his earlobe was bathed in the heat of her mouth.
“Fuck,” he bit out, grinding his granite erection against her. “Goddammit.”
She hooked one leg around his waist, her mouth seeking his.
He lifted her, her legs wrapping snug around his waist as he gripped her hips. She had a firm ass, one he’d love to feel without her denim overalls between them. Hell, he wanted to touch all of her, naked and warm on a bed—with mirrors if she wanted them.
His wolf was ready, damn near whimpering.
Mal froze, burying his face against her throat. “No more.” The words were hard and cold.
She was gasping for breath in his arms, her legs still tangled around him, her nails biting into his scalp. He disentangled her, holding her by the shoulders until her gaze cleared and her cheeks were bright with embarrassment. It wasn’t her fault. He wanted her so bad it hurt to let her go. His wolf craved her more than anything. That was going to make this whole pack of two thing more difficult than he’d anticipated.
The sooner Finn got here, the better.
...
Olivia washed her face for the third time. Never in her life had she been as mortified as she was right now. Or as confused.
What was she thinking? She’d practically climbed up his body and attacked him. It was sad—considering how easily he shut her down. Of course he would shut her down. She was acting crazy.
Because this was crazy. All of it. Whatever Mal said was wrong. She was losing it.
She stared her reflection in the eye. How long had it been since she’d done something normal like wash her face and look at her reflection? It felt like years.
But the last few days had been relentless, and it showed. Her matted hair stuck out, in need of a brush. Or some scissors. Dark smudges shadowed her eyes. Her lips were dry and chapped. Wearing the large trench coat she’d taken for Mal didn’t help. She looked like a homeless person—a deranged homeless person. This is how crazy looks.
It made more sense to believe she was in a coma somewhere, dreaming. Maybe she’d had a reaction to her flu meds. Maybe she’d saved her brother from being mugged and knocked her head. Or maybe she was dead, and this was some sort of purgatory she’d have to earn her way out of.
But believing in werewolves—being a werewolf—made no sense.
As a student of anthropology, she’d learned the importance of tiny details and hypotheses. Sometimes it was necessary to suspend doubt, to suspect the unlikely, to find the truth. But this was asking too much.
“Pull it together, Olivia,” she said loudly, to her reflection. “Wake up.”
There are no such things as werewolves.
How could she dismiss what she’d seen? Rather, what she thought she’d seen. If, and it was a big if, she’d been attacked as badly as she’d imagined, she’d be dead. Right? Right.
And Mal had been in a cell. Naked. He’d carried her out, into the snow, naked.
She covered her mouth, trying to stop the slightly hysterical laugh from slipping out.
What, if any of that, was real?
Mal was real. She pressed her fingers to her lips. All too real. The way he watched her. His growl of a voice. The way he shielded her, protected her, over and over.
She stared down, shrugging out of the coat and draping it over the sink. Her hand shook as it ran along her thigh. She could feel a scar, raised but smooth, through the denim. She untied the rope belt and held the fabric back to inspect where she’d been wounded, and sucked in an unsteady breath. Scars like that took a long time to heal.
How long had she been in the cabin?
“Olivia?” Mal banged on the door.
“One second,” she called out, overwhelmed with indecision and fear. What was going to happen to her? She ran for the stall, falling to her knees by the toilet as her stomach violently rejected its contents.
The bathroom door slammed into the wall, and Mal stood, staring down at her.
“Five minutes?” She held her hand up. “I can’t have five minutes alone?”
His features relaxed. “You’re sick.”
She leaned back against the stall, closing her eyes. “I’m fine.”
He snorted, crossing his thick arms over his broad chest.
She glared at him. Sure, he could look like that when she looked like some extra from a zombie apocalypse movie. “I’ve had a rough couple of days.”
He paced the small room, his hands on his hips. “You’ve done well.” He didn’t look at her, but his words were soft.
She rested her chin on her knees
, peering up at him. “Can I ask you something?”
He kept pacing, his nod quick.
It took all her energy to ask, “Can I go home?” She swallowed, trying again. “Can I pretend none of this happened? I want to go home and to un-know the things threatening my idea of the world. Please?”
He crouched by her, tilting her face toward his. “No.”
“You can’t keep me against my will—”
“I can bend your will to mine, Olivia.” He sighed, stroking her cheek. “Whether you like it or not—whether I like it or not—your home is with me.”
She frowned. She didn’t like it. And yet, part of her really did. “For how long?” Why was everything so confusing?
He took her hand in his, pulling her up. “You need a shower.”
She tugged her hand free. “Did anyone ever tell you to work on your bedside manner?”
“No one has ever complained about my bedside manner.” He grinned.
He was going to tease her? Now, when she was having an emotional crisis? He had no idea how close she was to running. She could always make a scene—surely some truckers would come to her defense if she said he’d taken her against her will. Then she could leave…
Stop it.
Why did the voice in her head have to be so damn bossy?
“Shower?” he asked.
“Now you have magical werewolf shower powers?” she asked.
He stared at her, in shock, before laughing.
It was her turn to stare. If his smile was mesmerizing, his laugh was dangerous.
His dark eyes swept her face. “Here.” He shoved a bag at her, still chuckling.
She peered inside. “Clothes?”
He nodded. “After your shower,” he murmured.
Apparently, there were showers in the truck stop, sort of like a drive through car wash, but for people. It resembled a closet with soap and shampoo dispensers mounted to the wall.
“Take your time.” Mal’s voice. “I’ll stand watch. Knock when you’re dressed.”
She stared at the door, lost. She was listening to him, trusting him, looking to him to take care of her. And even though the voice in her head was telling her that was the right thing to do, she knew it couldn’t be.
She kicked off her boots and stripped, all too happy to be rid of her dirty clothing. The water was hot, and the soap, all musky and bracing, left her skin refreshed and tingling. She scrubbed her hair until it was thickly lathered then let the water rinse it all down the drain. She stood under the dryer, wiping away as much of the residual water as she could. Her new wardrobe hung in a plastic bag on the back of the door. No bra or panties—but he had done his shopping in a truck stop. She slid into navy sweatpants, a white T-shirt that read Truckers Do It on The Road, and thick socks before tugging on her beaten boots. She shoved the bright pink hoodie back into the bag for later.
She knocked and opened the door.
Mal came in then, shutting and locking the door behind him. “I need five minutes,” he said, tugging off his clothes before she had time to think. Words like, “Stop,” or “Wait,” or “Let me give you some privacy,” never made it out of her mouth. Instead, she stared at his naked back, stunned.
“I can leave.” Her voice shook.
Soapsuds ran down his back, skimming over the twisted scars to caress the firm curve of his buttocks on the way to his thighs.
“No.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Stay. Safer,” he said, washing his face.
She blew out a deep breath and leaned against the wall. Safer? Only because he didn’t know what she was thinking. What she was wanting. What would he do if she shoved all her new clothes back into the plastic bag they’d come in? What would he do if she pressed herself against his back and explored every inch of him?
Yes, her world had been turned upside down but…
He turned to face her, eyes shut, head tilted back under the shower.
Oh my God. Look away, look away, look away.
She couldn’t do it. His body was perfect. Hard. Cut. It was like he was sculpted, the movement of his arms only showcasing every muscle. Shoulders, chest, stomach…her gaze wandered, following the dark trail that began at his navel and descended lower. Mal was big. All she could do was stand, and stare, and concentrate on breathing.
Her hands pressed flat against the wall. Cold as the tile was, she was on fire.
He shook the water from his hair and wiped his eyes, blinking away the water drops that clung to his thick eyelashes. And when he looked at her, she feared sliding down the wall to the floor. From relaxed to tense, his hands fisted at his sides, and his breath powered from his chest. He shook his head, jaw clenched.
She forced her gaze up, at the ceiling of the small stall.
But it didn’t help.
He wasn’t standing under the water anymore. He was inches away.
Chapter Eight
Her T-shirt was wet. With no bra, he could see the hard peaks of her nipples jutting against the thin cotton. And every gasping breath she took made them sway in invitation. It was an invitation every fucking cell ached to accept. The small sampling he’d had of Olivia left him craving more. It would be easy to finish what they started, to tug her pants off and wrap those silky thighs around him. Skin on skin, his hands gripping that firm ass as he showed her just what she’d been missing. Her out-of-control want for him was the only foreplay he needed.
Not that he’d act on it. Fuck no.
The words—Truckers Do It on The Road—added insult to injury. He shook his head again, unable to stop staring at her shirt, her breasts… He blinked, forcing his gaze up. Parted lips, dazed eyes, and flushed cheeks weren’t much better.
“We’re not doing this.” His words lacked conviction. Because he—his wolf—really fucking wanted to do this. Her. Now. Hard. Until they were too tired to move or breathe or think. He swallowed, hands fisting against the urge to reach for her.
She nodded, still pressed against the tile, her breath still powering out of her, making her breasts shimmy and bounce in the most distracting ways.
“Goddammit,” he muttered, ignoring the wolf and turning back into the shower. He blasted the cold water, spewing obscenities out long and loud until he’d cleared his head and his rock-hard erection eased.
He didn’t look at her as he turned off the water, dried off, or dressed. His body was all too willing to respond to her. “Finn should be calling soon.” Just saying his name helped Mal shift gears from horny to pissed. Pissed was better.
She didn’t say anything.
He glanced at her, pulled her new pink hoodie from the bag and tossed it to her.
She caught it.
“Put that on.” He nodded. “We’re trying to avoid attention.”
She glanced down at her shirt, frowning. “It’s your fault.”
He groaned. She was in the state she was in because she wanted him. And he was fucking walking away. His wolf was having a fit.
“I didn’t pick out the shirt,” she added, irritation replacing hunger.
He chuckled. Right, the shirt. “Just…cover up.”
She tugged on the oversize hoodie, pulling up the excess material. “It’s big.”
Meaning she was drowning in material and her nipples weren’t on display. Good. He was breathing a little easier when he pushed open the door. A quick look both ways told him it was clear, so he waved her forward. She hurried by him, leaning away when she squeezed through the doorway.
There was an old guy with a bag under his arm waiting for the shower. He looked Olivia up and down and shot Mal a wink. Mal ignored the urge to punch him and led Olivia back through the truck stop and into the diner.
The waitress nodded at them as they sat at the table they’d vacated. But once they were seated, Olivia sort of slumped into the booth—bleary-eyed and agitated. “Try to sleep,” he said.
“Not tired,” she said, stretching her arms out in front of her on the table and yawning.
&n
bsp; He shook his head.
“I thought you said we needed to talk?” she reminded him, stretching her arms over her head then rolling her neck. “You never said if it was a good talk or a bad talk.” Her small smile was teasing. “Are you breaking up with me?”
Mal couldn’t stop his smile.
But then she was staring at his mouth and he knew, immediately, what she was thinking—and wanting.
“Want something?” the waitress asked, making them both jump.
“Coffee,” he said.
“Same.” Olivia nodded and tugged the bowl full of creamer and sugars toward her. She started stacking the creamer cups.
Mal watched her fingers, the slight tremor of her hands, how her hazel eyes focused on her work. He liked watching her, her laugh and smile. “Finn’s the Alpha,” he said. “He started it all.”
She stared at him, turning a creamer cup over and over. “How? He”—she glanced behind her—“bit you?”
He nodded.
“You guys weren’t born this way?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Finn’s son is the only one of us that was born.”
Her eyes went wide. “You can have children? With other werewolves? Or women?”
“You’re the only female werewolf in our pack,” he said, waiting for the waitress to serve their coffee before continuing. “There were five of us. Finn was infected first—”
“Who infected him?” She dropped the creamer packet on the table.
“His brother was an archeologist. There was an accident, Finn got stuck by a bone.” He shrugged. “It infected him. And he infected us.”
She frowned. “Why would he do that to you?”
“You sort of lose your head with the first change,” he explained.
“I’ll be on, like, a killing spree?” The question was whispered.
He leaned forward. “You’ll be fine, Olivia. I’ll make sure of that.” He hadn’t meant to take her hand again, but her fingers threaded with his. “We’ll be safe at the reserve.”
“Where is the reserve?” she echoed, still nervous.
“He has a few. Big one in Minnesota. Smaller one in Montana. Another in Wyoming. Finn’s loaded. He bought half of Minnesota and started a wolf refuge, a place where Hollis could search for a cure without drawing attention.”
Rescued by the Wolf Page 7