by Amy Green
“The fact that Charlie owned the building opens two other cans of worms,” Brody continued, still frowning at the table between them. “The first is that Charlie didn’t have a will or a clear heir. I’m the oldest son, so you’d think his property would fall to me.”
“That should make the Dirty Den project easy,” Alison said, “since you own the building now.”
“That’s shifter logic,” Brody said. “Sensible. It doesn’t hold water when I’m trying to get a permit. I can’t go to the permit office and say Well, my sonofabitch father died, and of his four bastard sons I’m the oldest, and none of the others want this shitty strip club, so give me a permit.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I know that doesn’t work, because I tried it.”
She was starting to see where he was going here. “Leave it with me,” she said. “I’ll go online, and I’ll go to the permit office. I’ll figure it out.”
Brody didn’t say anything. He looked away, out the window, quiet for a long time.
She knew what he was thinking. Despite the fact that she was sitting here, despite the fact that he’d asked her for help, he was the alpha. He was supposed to do it all. The alpha’s voice in his head was telling him he was a failure. Again.
“Brody,” she said. “Stop it.”
“Fucking hell,” he said, still not looking at her.
“Get used to this,” she said, more firmly. “This is best for the pack. And no one man can do all of this. There are thirty years of incompetence and corruption to clean up. So let me go to the permit office. Okay?”
He took a breath and turned back to her. “Fine,” he said, dismissing the problem by force of will. “That’s only the first problem. The other problem is here.” He picked up another pile of papers.
“What is it?” she asked.
“When I saw that Charlie owned the Dirty Den, I went digging. And I found papers in his personal effects. The Dirty Den wasn’t the only thing he owned.” He handed the papers over to her. “He owned other property, other things. Pack property that he took for himself. So, presumably, whatever is in that pile is also mine. I haven’t gone through it. I found it the other day, and…” He trailed off, scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “I was fucking exhausted. It’s always worse when I’m tired.”
“Then these are mine,” Alison said, taking the papers from him. “I’ll do a summary for you.”
“I need to go run,” he said. He stood up, walked to the sliding glass door at the back of the house, and slid it open. Then he walked straight into the trees, pulling off his white t-shirt and dropping it behind him before he disappeared. He was going to change into his wolf. To do that, he had to be naked. But he wouldn’t strip in front of her, wouldn’t change in front of her. Only a wolf’s mate got to see him change.
He didn’t look back. She had never seen him shirtless before, and she saw the dip of his spine, the muscles of his bare back, the edge of the wolf tattoo he had on his left shoulder. The one that identified his animal. He’d have a stylized D on the back of his neck, too, which identified him as Donovan pack elite, but she didn’t get a chance to glimpse that. She was too busy staring at that back, those muscles. Then he was gone.
She blinked herself back into reality. Then she sighed.
The house was quiet. A breeze blew in. He hadn’t even closed the door behind him. He’d left her alone.
“Werewolves,” she said, and got to work.
5
This was going to work.
It was not going to fucking work.
It was going to work. He would make it work.
For three weeks, he argued in his head, every minute of every day. He tried to do everything—lead his pack, manage his brothers, do all the duties of an alpha—with the scent of apples in his nose. Apples and goodness and sometimes that sweet, unbearable scent of arousal that made his wolf go crazy.
She was, quite simply, the best thing that had ever happened to him. It had hit him from the first, when she’d said she’d go to the permit office. It was like a baseball bat to the back of his head. She is the best thing to ever happen to you. And you don’t deserve her in the least.
It started with the permit office, which she sorted out. But it went from there. Anything to do with lawyers, real estate agents, banks—in other words, humans—she took on. Everything to do with talking to people, sorting out problems, ruling on disputes, keeping everyone in line—that was Brody’s. He was supposed to be alpha, but when he had Alison with him he felt like a man who has been given a prosthetic leg after hopping his whole life. He had no idea how he’d done anything before. And in true Brody fashion, the idea worried him. Because what if she left?
She could leave so easily. Just walk out. He’d be finished if she left.
His wolf wanted her, and he wasn’t handling it well. Brody was starting to notice the soft curve of her hips in her jeans, the fall of her auburn hair on her back, the way the t-shirts she wore draped over her small breasts. He was starting to notice the tilt of her chin when someone had irked her and the rare, very rare, smile she gave when she laughed. Heath could make her laugh, and sometimes so could Ian. Brody sure as hell couldn’t. He didn’t even try.
He was starting to notice the way she rubbed a knuckle over her lower lip when she was thinking hard, the fact that she liked tops with flowers on them paired with her jeans, the fact that she liked chocolate. Tops with flowers on them was out of his skill set, but chocolate he could do. He took to having some around the house when she came over. You’re going to make me fat, she’d say when she’d take it—because she always took it. All those years eating Patty’s food and you never got fat, he replied. It ain’t gonna happen now. That got him a smile, which made that a good day.
He wanted her. Not just as his mate—because it was becoming clearer to him every day that that was what she was. His mate, and there was no other woman for him. But what he wanted was her. Just Alison. That spark that was in her, the quiet steel. The shyness, the vulnerability, the unwavering loyalty. He needed all of that, wanted it to be his. To be no one else’s. Deep down, he wanted her to give him everything she had.
Which was a lot to ask of your assistant when she didn’t understand.
His brothers knew. They said nothing—they had each gone through their own trials in getting a mate, and they all understood how painful it could be. The period when you knew, and she didn’t, and you had no way to tell her. The period when she knew, but she hadn’t said yes yet. It could make a wolf a little crazy, or a lot crazy, so his brothers simply understood and left him alone about it.
It was Heath who brought it up, the day they demolished the Dirty Den. The permits showed up, the crew was chosen and hired, and on the scheduled day half the town turned out to watch, standing in a crowd on Howell Street. It was cold now, past Halloween, and Brody wore a jacket over his plaid shirt, along with his baseball cap, so he would fit in with the humans. He stood on the sidewalk as the crew got working, hands in his pockets, watching along with everyone else.
Heath came and stood next to him. People noticed—everyone knew who they were, and Heath was especially distinctive—but they were left alone. That was the best thing about the Falls. People accepted the Donovans ruled the place, and then they went about their business.
Bulldozers moved in, as did a big piece of equipment swinging a wrecking ball. The crowd made an appreciative aaaah noise. “This is a good show,” Heath said. “Nice work.”
“Not my work,” Brody said. It was hard to get used to, that he wasn’t doing everything. But he made himself get used to it by repeating it every day.
“I know,” Heath said. He nodded toward Alison, ten feet away, wearing a coat and mittens against the chill and hugging a clipboard to her chest as she watched. “Jesus, Brody,” he said. “Tessa is the most beautiful woman in the world, but if I had to, I’d probably put Alison second. Especially now.”
“Shut up,” Brody said.
“I know what it’s li
ke, you know,” Heath said. “Working with your mate when she doesn’t know. I didn’t listen to my wolf for months when I worked with Tessa. Those were the stupidest months of my life. And that’s not an easy contest to win.”
“Shut up, Heath.” He said it again, because he meant it.
“But I know where you’re coming from,” Heath said, ignoring him. “This isn’t just some woman, any woman. This is Alison. She’s pack. Everyone loves her. She’s good, and she’s innocent. I think if you hurt her, I’d maim you myself.”
Brody closed his eyes, seeking patience. “Why?” he said. “Why won’t you shut up?”
“Tessa required some strategizing,” Heath said, “but Tessa is tough. If I’d done it wrong, been clumsy, she would have simply walked away. But Alison…” He seemed to think it over. “I think it’s okay to say this now, isn’t it? She’s been in love with you for as long as anyone remembers. And you’d think that makes it easier, but I think it makes it all that much harder.”
In love with him? He’d figured out a lot of things in the last three weeks. Seen things he’d never seen before. He understood now. “She’s not in love with me,” he said. “She’s in love with an ideal she’s created. He doesn’t exist.”
“She thinks you walk on water,” Heath said.
“She’s wrong,” Brody replied through gritted teeth. “I do not walk on water. I never have. That’s the problem.”
“You are an asshole,” Heath agreed. “But she’s worked with you for three weeks, and she hasn’t run away screaming. I admire her fortitude, if not her sanity.”
“Why do I put up with you,” Brody said, “when you never shut up? Just once, Heath. Shut the hell up.”
Heath clapped him on the shoulder, hard. “Good luck with it, dumbass,” he said, and walked away.
The building was coming down now, the walls crumbling under the wrecking ball. People were aaaahing, and some were clapping. These were his people, his pack, and they wouldn’t have to look at the eyesore of the Dirty Den, with all of its bad memories, anymore. This was a good day.
He glanced at Alison, but she was gone. A second later he smelled apples as she sidled up next to him. “Isn’t this great?” she said to him, excited.
He watched another wall fall, thoughtful. “It’s good,” he agreed, reluctantly.
Alison punched him on the arm. “I swear to God, Brody,” she said, and then she aaahed with the crowd as there was another crack and dust clouds rose in the air.
Brody watched, and thought. Inside him, his wolf howled.
6
She wondered sometimes what he was thinking. There were times she could tell. When he was beating himself up—that was easy. She could tell. She could tell when his brothers annoyed him, and when he was tired. She’d seen him tired so often in the diner, she’d learned the exact gesture when he scrubbed a hand over his face—up once, then down. He’d always continue like nothing was wrong, but that face-rub meant he was tired.
There were other times, though, when she didn’t know what he was thinking at all. When he looked at her, it was baffling. She couldn’t understand it. His eyes went dark sometimes, which made her pulse jump, but he kept his expression cool. He didn’t do what human men did if they were interested: run his gaze up and down her, flirt, touch her unnecessarily. Of course he didn’t. He was a shifter, and he was Brody.
But that look… that look made her think he was interested. Like he was thinking about doing something to her. But he’d always turn away, and sometimes, after that look, he’d go running as his wolf.
She had no idea what to do. She wanted Brody, but she didn’t want him if he was just horny, or bored, or if he felt pity or obligation. She wanted him so bad that if any of those things were true, it would hurt her irreparably. So she didn’t ask. It was a bargain she made with herself. Stay with him, give herself the gift of his company, at least for a while. And in return, don’t ask.
She did her best to please him. She worked hard, put in long hours—even though he told her not to—and jumped through hoops. Maybe that just made her useful to him, like a can opener, but it was the only thing she knew how to do.
“Your father’s property,” she told him one afternoon, pulling out the papers he’d given her. “I’ve gone through these, and figured them out.”
They were in his house today, on the sofas like they’d been that first day. Alison was wearing leggings and a loose top, and she’d crossed her legs on the sofa and tucked her stockinged feet beneath her. She’d become a little more comfortable in Brody’s place over the past weeks. She loved this place more than anything.
He leaned back on his sofa and tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Alison.”
“Come on,” she said. “We have to.” After giving her the assignment, Brody had refused to discuss it ever again. He didn’t want her results, didn’t want to know what else Charlie owned that he had probably inherited. There were so many other things to do, she’d stopped bringing it up. Now she waited a second, looking at his spectacularly handsome profile, and then she said again, “We have to.”
He closed his eyes briefly. “Okay,” he said. “Go.”
“There was a house on Bridger Avenue,” she said, shuffling through the papers. “That’s near Shep Wilson’s garage. I talked to Shep and he says Charlie didn’t stay in the house, but he kept it for some of the high-ranking wolves and their women to use. The house flooded the month after Charlie died, and it’s basically a wreck. It should pretty much be torn down.”
“My classy heritage,” Brody commented. “Go on.”
“He rented an apartment on Sloane Avenue, but the lease lapsed after he died and that apartment is long gone. I talked to the landlord, and he said the place was pretty much used to deal pot, but since it was rented by the alpha, he couldn’t evict him. When Charlie died, the landlord took the opportunity to kick out whoever was shacking up there and put a nice family in. I told him you were fine with that, which I assume is true.”
“Thank you for talking to all of these people,” Brody said to the ceiling. “You’ve been very thorough. I appreciate it.”
Alison was quiet. One of the things she’d learned working with Brody was that he gave out nice compliments, and he always meant them. It made her feel dizzy.
“Next,” Brody prompted.
She shuffled to the next paper, dreading this one. “Um. The last thing he owned was, um, another house.”
“Uh huh,” Brody said. “Where was this one?”
Alison felt her palms sweat. “Well, it’s the house on Barfield Road.”
The air sucked out of the room. Everything was still.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” Brody said.
“No. I’m sorry. I’m not.”
Something hard and painful seemed to work its way over his stony expression. “You mean my mother’s house,” he said softly.
“I believe that’s—yes, that’s what it is,” Alison said. “Your mother’s house.”
The house on Barfield Road was where Brody’s mother had raised him. Where they’d lived together. Until Brody’s mother had died when Brody was a teenager.
There were rumors about that death. That Charlie had killed her, or had her killed. That he’d done it to teach Brody a lesson in case he was thinking about taking his father’s place as alpha. In quiet, hushed tones, people said that Charlie had kept Brody in line by killing his mother and making him watch. No one knew how it happened, or whether it was true. But after her death, Brody never spoke of her again.
The story wasn’t talked about much, even among gossipy types. It was too awful to contemplate. And really, no one knew the truth. Except Alison, right now. In this moment, she looked at the quiet pain etched in his face as he stared at the ceiling, and she knew the story was true.
Every word.
“We should tear it down,” she said, because there had to be a solution to this, a way to make it better. “Like we did the Dirty Den. Right?”
“He kept it,” Brody said softly, almost to himself. “I didn’t know the house was his. I didn’t know he kept it all these years. I didn’t even think about it.”
“I, um, I drove by,” Alison said. “It’s empty. It looks like it’s been empty for a long time. The neighbors don’t remember anyone living there. The shingles are falling off the roof, and the windows are broken. It looks in really bad shape.”
Brody raised his head and looked at her. She had never seen his dark brown eyes like that: unshuttered, alive with pain. He made no sound, didn’t speak, but she felt that look like a punch in the heart.
“Brody,” she said.
He shut it down. She watched the pain leave his eyes, leaving an expression harsh and sharp behind. It was the kind of expression a man has when he’s about to hurt someone.
“The house stays private,” he said. “Not even my brothers can know. Only you and me. Am I making myself perfectly clear?”
She’d never heard that icy voice before. “Yes,” she said.
“I mean it. Do not feel the need to discuss this, Alison. Do not breathe a word.”
“Brody,” she said, “it’s me.”
He closed his eyes and took a breath, then opened them again and stood up. “I’m taking you somewhere,” he said.
“Where?” she asked, standing.
“Outside,” he said. “Put on your coat and your boots. I want you to see something.”
She followed him out. He put her in his SUV, and drove silently over the back roads through the woods until he hit the end of one of the access roads. “I usually run here as a wolf,” he said as he opened the door, “but we’ll have to walk.”
They walked up an incline, pathless, winding through the trees. There was half-frozen mud here, and traces of wet snow that hadn’t fallen yet down in the town. Brody moved over the terrain like it was nothing, his legs moving easily, and Alison tried to keep up. When she slipped and fell to one knee, she found him standing next to her, taking her elbow.