Page 22 of The Crimson Wolf
When I’ve finally dressed, combed my fingers through my wet hair, and taken a few deep breaths, I step out of Jack’s bedroom.
He’s in the kitchen, cooking something on the stovetop.
“What are you making?” I ask as I slide into one of the bar stools facing the kitchen.
“Spaghetti.” He turns away from the stove to catch my eyes. He freezes, his eyes wide and his Adam's apple bobbing. You’d think I’d stepped out wearing a ballgown instead of his hand-me-downs. His eyes soak me in as if they’re dying of thirst.
My cheeks heat, and I look down at my hands, unable to take the attention for much longer before sitting on his couch.
He clears his throat. “Do those work?” he asks, walking over to me with a plate full of spaghetti and placing it on the coffee table in front of me.
I turn my attention back to him. “Yep. Thanks.” His hair is wet, making his red hair look brown, and he’s wearing a white T-shirt and grey sweatpants. God, grey sweatpants? It’s like he’s trying to seduce me.
“You were able to shower?”
“Yeah, I have another shower at the back of the shop. It’s for when I get too dirty for my own shower. I changed in the bedroom while you were showering.”
My mind races with images of him naked in his bedroom with me just on the other side of the door, sopping wet. If only I took a shorter shower and stumbled in on him. I shake my head slightly, trying to rid my mind of my dirty thoughts. God, I hope this storm stops. I don’t think I’ll be able to take much more of this.
But the storm doesn’t stop. In fact, it gets worse. The winds howl, shaking the glasses in the cabinets, and the rain sounds like a constant pour of water from above. I’ve never been scared about a little thunderstorm, but this seems more than that. I can’t help but wonder if the dead werewolf just a few hundred feet away from Jack’s cabin could have something to do with it. It’s illogical, but so are werewolves in general.
“Are you sure we’re safe here?” I ask, pulling my knees closer to my chest on his grey couch.
Jack leans over in front of me to pick up my empty plate of spaghetti. Not only is he hot, he’s a damned good cook.Who knew something as simple as spaghetti could taste so good? I probably looked like an animal, scarfing down everything on my plate.
“We’re safe. I promise. It’s just a rough storm. These windows are hurricane-proof.”
Even in my fright, I can’t help but notice the buzz of electricity that bounces off him when he’s so near. My heartbeat increases, and I have to close my eyes to focus on anything else than how damned good he looks in his fucking stupid grey sweatpants.
“Are you getting sleepy?” he asks from the kitchen sink as he washes our dishes.
My eyes pop open, and I turn to him. “What time is it?”
He turns to look at a clock on the wall behind him. “It’s eight.”
Figures. I’m not even a little tired, especially with the adrenaline pumping through my veins after everything that’s happened today, but maybe going to bed is the best idea. We need space between us, and maybe his bedroom door would be enough.
I give a fake yawn, throwing my hands over my head. “Yeah, I think today just wore me out.” I stand. “Are you sure you’re okay with me taking your bedroom?”
He abandons the dishes, wipes his hands on his pants, and walks toward me. “Of course. Is there anything you need? Are you warm enough?” It’s like he’s a mother henclucking over me. It’s so odd that just hours ago, I watched him kill a wild beast—a werewolf—with his bare hands and felt terror deep in my veins when he locked me in his torture chamber, and now he’s making me spaghetti and ready to tuck me into a warm bed.
I shake my head. I don’t have the strength to perform a psychoanalysis on Jack. “I’m fine. I’m just going to call it a night.” I turn toward his bedroom, moving a little faster than normal, shutting the door and resting against it before closing my eyes.
It’s just one night. I need to keep it in my pants, and then I can figure everything out tomorrow.
***
The rain pelts against the window, and I curl deeper into Jack’s thick comforter. His bed smells like him, and I bring a corner of the blanket up to my nose, finding that the smell washes me with a sense of comfort: comfort and so much more.
Why did I think sleeping in his bed before I was tired would be a good idea? Sure, I don’t have to be near him anymore, but now my mind can’t stop racing with images of him sleeping here—wishing he was here with me.
I toss to my other side for the twelfth time, trying to count sheep or think about some boring email I need to send to my boss in the morning, but it doesn’t help. My body vibrates with adrenaline, and sleep seems so far down shore that I’ll never be able to reach it.
I sit up, looking around his dark room, trying to find something to distract me from the feelings swirling through my veins. My eyes adjust to the darkness, and lightning reveals more of the room every few minutes.
His dresser sits bare, and he doesn’t even have a sock lying in the corner. His room is meticulous, so there’s nothing to distract me.
I lean over and grab my phone off the nightstand. Of course, it’s dead. I sigh and grab the covers, noticing a top sheet neatly tucked into the mattress. I stick my legs into the opening, but once I’m underneath, I realize it’s entirely too snug, and I’m like a trapped bug.
