by Vaughn, V.
Just before dawn, he reluctantly returned to his house, picked his discarded clothes up from the doormat, and shouldered the door open quietly.
She had to still be asleep. She might sleep all day, given how busy the previous one must have been for her. And if she slept, he’d have some time to think—to figure out something else for her. He’d go crazy in his new home if she didn’t leave.
He closed the door softly, and turned, clutching his clothes. He could probably get a couple of hours of sleep before anyone expected him to do anything for them. Even the quartermaster needed a day off every so often, and Anton had been working pretty much fulltime, every day, for six weeks.
The floorboards creaked in the corner.
Shit.
He hadn’t seen Christina in his periphery because she was on his blind side. She was next to the window. Still wearing those unflattering clothes, but she’d taken her shoes off. She stood in her ankle socks, wringing her hands.
“It’s so quiet here,” she said softly, after a moment. “So quiet it’s almost loud.”
Yeah, he’d thought the same thing once. He gripped his wadded-up clothes against his midsection and scanned the visible surfaces in the room. Where was his patch? He’d taken it off…somewhere. Between the kitchen and front door, maybe? No way to search for it discreetly. He shook his head so his hair fell over his face. “Uh, couldn’t sleep?”
She shrugged. “I came out of the bathroom from washing up, and you were gone. I thought maybe you’d be right back.”
“You waited up for me?”
“I tried to sleep, after a while, but I couldn’t nod off.”
“Because it’s too quiet?”
She nodded.
He grunted, tossed his shirt onto the coffee table, and stepped into his pants. He didn’t think she could see anything worth noting. Their eyes weren’t so good in the dark in their human forms. She’d just see shadows, and even if she saw more than that, he didn’t really care. If he sent her along to the next guy with her having only been minimally scandalized, Anton would consider it a victory.
“Go on to sleep, little wolf. Nothing’s going to happen to you.” Including him.
“You’re in for the night—err—morning?”
“Yeah.”
“All right.” She may have said it, but she made no motion to move, aside from wringing her hands some more.
“You can have the bed. Sheets are clean. I haven’t had a chance to sleep on them, so you don’t have to worry about fleas or anything.”
Was that a joke? Had he really just made a joke? He couldn’t remember the last fucking time he’d done that.
Her laugh reminded him of wind chimes tinkling. Organic and unforced. She moved slowly into the hall. “Are you coming?”
“Uh, no. I’m gonna stay up for a while longer. Catch up on some things.”
“You’re behind because of me?”
He shook his head, but realized she probably couldn’t see it. “No. I just always have a lot to do.”
“Okay.”
The floorboard creaked yet again as she departed. He heard the mattress springs creak as she climbed onto the bed, and the rustle of sheets as she pulled the covers over herself.
He stood there listening until there was nothing left to listen to. No more movements came from the bedroom. Just her soft sighing in sleep. He had to have been standing there for a solid ten minutes.
What’s wrong with me?
Well, he knew the answer to that. She was wrong with him—and wrong for him—and yet there she was, sleeping in his house.
He grabbed the afghan off the back of the sofa and settled down into the chair. He curled up as best he could under the insufficient cover and closed his eyes. He’d figure out how to get rid of her in the morning, once he’d slept some and could think straight. He’d never had such a problem with thinking before, but he knew for sure what had caused the dysfunction.
* * *
Anton was pretty certain he was dead. Either that, or he was on those fucking painkillers again—the ones he’d taken after that fight when he’d been mauled so badly. The damned pills had him seeing things that weren’t really there. He’d heard things that no one else had. Music. Voices. He’d been tripping, and his packmates had thought that was a goddamned hoot. He still hadn’t gotten them back for that.
He pushed his eyelids open, ready to meet either his maker or see the hospital room he had to be in if he was on that shit again. Only angels sing like that.
His vision cleared and came into focus on the hunched figure of a pretty little woman in a flower-print dress. She was matching his socks atop the coffee table. She rolled two together and reached into the laundry basket for another pair. Her gaze fell on his face, and she stopped singing, slapping a hand over her mouth.
“Don’t stop on my account. The singing, I mean. You don’t need to do my laundry, though. I was going to get around to it.” Eventually.
“It’s a habit. Sorry.”
“Doing laundry?”
“No. Singing to myself when I’m working. I’d almost forgotten you were in the room. You’ve been deathly still.”
He closed his eyes, rubbed them. Shit, the patch. He sat, holding his hand over his eye and scanning the room. Had to be around somewhere. He needed to keep better track of the damned thing or buy more of them. Except that he barely even had time to buy groceries, or cook them, for that matter.
“Are you—are you looking for—” It seemed she didn’t know how to phrase her question tactfully. Too sweet to know that tact wasn’t even required.
“My patch. You’d think I’d have more than one. Add another thing to the to-do list.”
“You left it hanging on the bathroom doorknob.”
He started for the hall.
“You don’t have to wear it on my account,” she said in a rush.
“It’s one thing to look at me when both my eyes are closed. But I know what I look like when they’re open.”
“I—” she sighed, cutting off her own statement.
Just as well.
He grabbed the patch off the knob and fastened it around his head, scenting the air in the process.
Piney.
He sniffed again.
Bleachy.
Cleaning stuff. He tapped on the bathroom light and practically lost his good eye to a blinding brightness. The bathroom hadn’t been so clean since he’d moved in, and he was the first owner. He whistled low. She’d even cleaned the baseboards and shower curtain. How fucking long had he been asleep?
He turned off the light and returned to the great room. He squinted at the clock on the satellite dish receiver box. 12:30. He hadn’t slept that late in months. He turned to her next. She’d gone back to rolling his socks, and he wondered how he’d ended up with so many pairs.
Oh. Right. He didn’t do laundry. Ever.
“Nobody came by?”
“It’s been pretty quiet. I saw a couple of your packmates passing through the courtyard, but it seems like folks have been keeping to their own houses. Your aunt did come by early. Brought an egg casserole. It’s in the kitchen.”
“What’d she say?”
“That she was sending your uncle over as soon as he finished meeting with your bosses.”
Anton sighed and headed into the kitchen for some of that casserole. He bet he knew exactly what Adam would have to say. Auntie had probably told him that Christina didn’t have her bite, and he was going to visit to bitch at Anton.
Well, Adam had obviously been off his rocker, putting the woman in his house in the first place.
Anton stood stunned in front of the counter. The casserole was there, yeah, barely touched and covered with plastic wrap, but there was also a basket of biscuits and what looked like a fruit salad.
Christina padded over, shy and quiet as a cat. “Uh, I went to the grocery store over in Norseton with the girls and got some things. I didn’t know what you liked, so I figured I’d just see—�
� She shrugged, clearly uncomfortable.
“You don’t have to cook for me.” He picked up a biscuit and took a bite, hoping it was hard as a rock and blander than cardboard. Nope. Light and buttery. Its flaky texture melted in his mouth like a goddamned snowflake.
Shit.
“I cooked every morning. I’m used to it. The men expected a little more than bowls of cold cereal with milk.”
“They should have been happy that they got that much.” And happy she didn’t punch them all on their stupid noses. He grabbed a plate from the cupboard and piled on some food. “And I’m not picky. The casserole would have been enough, but thank you for the extras. You really don’t have to do that.” He didn’t want her spoiling him.
“I wanted to. Besides, I have to eat, too.”
“Doesn’t look like you ate very much.”
She shrugged. “I tend to graze. Eat throughout the day, when I have time.”
The loud bleat of the dryer rang out, and she turned toward it. Before she could shift her weight to take a step, he wrapped his left arm around her and pulled her back. Instinctively. The wolf in him made her out to be prey trying to flee, but the man realized that she was just doing his laundry, and he didn’t want her doing that.
She stood very still, stiff and not breathing as he held her there, but there was no adrenaline spike. There should have been one. A woman like her—wolf-born or not—should have been afraid of a man like him.
He heard her swallow. Her soft exhale when she resumed her breathing. Let go.
She felt so good against him, her soft curves against his muscled body, and her trust was intoxicating. It was driving him toward the kind of delirium that would have her stripped naked and on her back in his bed. He’d sink his teeth in her flesh, marking her as his, despite the fact that he knew damned well he shouldn’t keep her.
Still, his hand moved up her belly to her chest, resting beneath the swell of her breast. Barely a handful, but just enough. He palmed it, and immediately regretted it.
Shouldn’t touch her.
His thumb glided across her nipple through the thin fabric of her shirt and worked it to a hard bead.
She wrapped her fingers around his wrist, and he expected her to pull his hand away—as she should have—but instead, she just held him there. Kept his hand kneading and thumb working.
“This—this isn’t right,” he said. He managed to pull his hand away and take a step back from her. Then another.
“Why?” She whipped around, and those wide, gray eyes held a glint of anger. “Am I not pretty enough?”
“What? Why would you even ask that?”
“I know I’m not like the others, but I do the best I can.”
“You do just fine. Who told you that you didn’t?” He’d hurt them for making her think she wasn’t anything but perfect. Fucking East Coast losers.
“You don’t think I’m smart enough? I’m not afraid of books.”
Probably not afraid to throw them, either, judging by the tart snap to her voice. His little wolf had some spunk, apparently. “Trust me when I say that alphas rarely consider intelligence when matching their wolves.”
“You holding out for someone taller? I know I’m not going to make much of a wolf, but the women in my family have always been small, and we manage to pop out pups, no problem.”
“Huh?” What the hell is she going on about? Maybe if he’d spent more time around women in the past ten years, he’d have some idea of how to make sense of them. His aunt was easy enough to read, but the one in front of him—shit. And pups? Him, with pups? He’d never let himself imagine it, especially not in the last six months.
“Do you think I’m too young? Is that it? Well, I’ll have you know I’ve been a woman for years now.”
He could hardly believe he was seeing it, but sure as the sun was in the sky, she was tugging up the hem of her dress and showing herself to him.
No panties. Not a snatch of fabric to be found, just a dusting of dark, silky hair against skin just as tan as the rest of her. Nice to know she’d come by the coloring naturally.
“I’m a grown woman,” she said. “Why don’t you taste me and see for yourself? That’s what all the wolves said where I came from. One lick and they’d know if I was ready for them.”
He changed his mind. He wasn’t going to merely hurt them. He was going to rip their fucking throats out and make fur rugs to put under Christina’s bare feet.
Clenching his fists, he swallowed and let out a ragged exhale. Focus. “Where are your panties?”
“In the wash. When I got the call, I had to pack fast. I—” She shifted her weight, nervously, it seemed. “I forgot some things.”
“We’ll have to get you some more.”
She canted her head and narrowed her eyes. “What’s wrong with you? You should’ve been on top of me by now. Wolves aren’t known for their self-restraint.”
“You’re certainly testing mine.” His gaze fell to the tops of her thighs. Wet with arousal. He hadn’t wanted to believe that was what he’d been smelling—her desire. For him, though? She was either hard up, or as blind as he was. “How’s your vision, little wolf?”
“A little better than twenty-twenty, last time I had it checked.”
“Shit.”
She let down the hem and with a sigh, turned on her heels. “You’re out of dryer sheets,” she said softly.
Dryer sheets? “What?”
She stopped. Spun. “You know, dryer sheets. The things you put in the dryer to get the static out your clothes. Can’t put anything on a clothesline out here. It’s too dusty, and there’s nowhere in the house I can set up a drying rack.” She shrugged. “Have to use the dryer.”
“I’ll need to buy some, I guess.”
“How is it that you don’t know about dryer sheets? Who usually does your laundry?”
He cringed. There really was no good answer to that question—at least, not one that would cast him in a good light. “I do.” Sometimes Auntie came over and started a load, but up until recently, they were all on the road, and they’d wash their clothes at whatever Laundromat was nearby. He did know how. “And you don’t have to do my laundry. I’ll get around to it.” Someday.
“How long has it been since you’ve washed those pants?”
“My pants?” He looked down at them. Who keeps track of that kind of thing? He just put on whatever looked clean enough, and pitched them into a pile when they got too much dirt on them. “I don’t know.”
“You’ve got mud all around the bottoms. Take ’em off.”
It was as if she wasn’t making good sense, given that he didn’t know how to respond, or even if he should.
“Anton, take them off. I’m washing a colored load.” She held out her hand and made a gimme gesture. “The shirt you had on last night, too.”
Grumbling, he unbuttoned, unzipped, disrobed, and handed her the items.
She went off in an indignant huff.
“You don’t have to do my laundry,” he said for what seemed like the umpteenth time. Maybe if he kept saying it enough, she’d eventually believe it. “Or cook for me. Or clean stuff. I’m a grown man, and I can do all those things.”
“Doesn’t seem like you’re doing a very good job of them.”
His mouth flapped open for a few beats, but as no retort came forth, he closed it and headed into his bedroom for new pants. Fuck waiting for Adam to come by and yell at him. Anton would cut him off at the pass and make sure he spoke his mind first. What the hell had the man been thinking?
Probably that Anton needed a keeper. Well, maybe he did, just not this one.
Chapter 4
Christina wasn’t a fan of guns in general, but she’d had no choice but to learn to be comfortable around them. Her brothers kept chests full of rifles and shotguns they used for sport and hunting when in their human forms. She could even shoot one if she had to, but preferred to admire them from a distance.
A great distance.
Well, no, not leave her, which she suspected he fully intended to do, but she simply wasn’t going to let him. He had yet to give her one good reason why he couldn’t mark her, and she was starting to think that he didn’t have one. So, she’d just keep on as she was. She refused to go back to that place, and she wasn’t giving up her mate to some other bitch. For the first time in her life, she was actually willing to fight over something, and what better thing than Anton?
Picking up a gun to clean seemed the next logical component of the day’s chores. There was a whole shelf of them just waiting for some attention. More things for Anton to eventually get around to.
He’d pulled on some clothes and gone storming out of the house as she loaded the washer. She’d heard yelling coming from the general direction of Alpha’s house, but she didn’t bother to get up and look. She had too much to do to concern herself with her wolf’s temper tantrum.
She had just finished putting the last screw back into a .50 caliber rifle—what on Earth did they need a gun of that gauge for?—when Anton threw the front door open.
What she could see of his face that wasn’t covered by his eye patch or his hair was flushed, and his mouth was drawn into a frightening grimace.
She set down the screwdriver and placed the gun on the coffee table.
“What are you doing?” His voice was a restrained growl.
“I just cleaned it. I know how.”
He stood there staring for a minute. His accusatory gaze went from her to the gun and then back to her.
“I used to clean my brothers’ all the time. They didn’t have guns like this, but most guns are easy enough to figure out if you’ve handled a few different types.”
“There’s nothing easy to figure out about that particular rifle. That’s why it’s been sitting on that shelf for three weeks.”