Page 18 of House of Wolves
He pulls the lighter out of his pocket and works on lighting each of the tiny, mismatched candles he managed to scrounge together, clearly unbothered by what I hold in my hand.
It unnerves me, and I stumble over my words. “Well, now that you’ve caught me, what is this?”
“It’s a file on the missing girls,” he says plainly. He sits back on the small couch in front of the coffee table, a macrame of candles sitting before him, so bright that it resembles a bonfire. He outstretches his arms over the back cushion, taking as much room as possible.
I step around his desk. “Why do you have a file on them? I thought you guys declared them runaways.”
He nods, his stare so intense it makes my knees buckle. “Yes, that's what the other police officers have decided. You know I’m one of the only officers on the force who knows about the Weres, right?”
“So you’re investigating this on your own?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I brought it up to the Department of Supernatural. They’ve taken it out of my hands.”
Ah, the ominous “National Department of Supernatural.” I always hear about them but never actually see their effects. It seems they’re only mentioned so the police can do whatever they want and have a higher power to blame their shortcomings on. Brick is lying. I don’t need powers to tell that. Even though he’s staring at me head-on, his eyes dart subtly as if he’s trying to prove something to me. Besides, if the Department of Supernatural truly took the case out of his hands, why would he have the file on the top of his desk?
I don’t mind the lie. I expected it. If anything, it confirms that Brick knows something. He has an interest in these girls, and if I can stick close to him long enough, maybe I can find out where he’s keeping them.
I move toward him, plopping down in the nonexistent space beside him on the couch. Part of my ass-cheek rests on his thigh, and I nuzzle in under his still-extended arm. I expect him to retreat, fold from his man-spread, and give me as much room as possible. Maybe even enjoy my closeness briefly before darting away, but he does neither. He looks down at me, his eyes zoned in my lips, a smirk at the corner of his lips.
The sight of him, the smell of him, the warmth of his presence so close, it catches me off guard. I never would have thought I’d have such a reaction to him. Of course, molten lava runs through my veins whenever I’m near him, but I always attribute that to my hate for him. Now, he’s not yelling at me. He’s not turning his nose away from me as if I disgust him. He’s just watching me as if he wants to devour me. It’s doing something to me, and I hate it even though I don’t hate it.
My hands move on their own, leaving my personal space and traveling to his chest. My touch is light, but I recognize the hardness of his chest immediately. I lean in, the tiniest bit. Part of me wants to make him want me, but also, I need to know what he tastes like. Is it smokey like the rest of him? Is it sweet to make up for all of his sour? Or is it as rotten as his soul? I need to know.
He gets closer, but my eyes don’t leave his, studying for any subtle movement that might give him away. All awareness moves to a point in my body. His hand inches to my thigh, pressing into my flesh. His touch sears me, melting me to the point until it’s all I can think about. Men have touched every inch of me, especially my favorite places, but nothing compares to this simple touch. It makes everything more confusing. He’s a man first and my enemy second. I can bring him to his knees. That’s what this is. He wants me—carnally.
Our space closes, but before our skin touches, I catch his smile curve upward. It’s subtle but noticeable. I pull back, and the smile grows. His eyes don’t match, holding something vicious and knowing. Could he really be playing the same game I am? There are so many layers to whatever this is between us, and I can’t decipher where we are. I know my mission, though. At least I know that.
I grin sweetly, and he shakes his head with a smile as if reading all the thoughts bouncing around my head. It is as if we both know exactly what we’re doing and are prepared to see this through. To confirm my thoughts, he clears his throat and creates some distance between us. Not an,I hate you get away from me,distance, but more of a,let’s not get carried away,space. “I want to take you to dinner,” he says, his gaze nowhere near mine.
“Dinner? Why?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “To make amends.”
I show my hand. “Hm, big change of heart for someone who just moments ago didn’t think amends were necessary.” We’re past this point in an unspoken way, but I want to know how he’ll explain his sudden desire to be near me again.
“I think I needed the lights to go out to ground me. There’s no way I’m leaving this place in the rain, so it made me sit here with you.”
I fain empathy. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Sounds horrible.”
He smiles again. God, it guts me. He turns to me, his elbows resting on his knees. “It actually wasn’t horrible.”
I squint an eye. “I gave you the silent treatment and went through your things.”
“And surprisingly, I didn’t hate it.”
“So that’s it, you like when I’m quiet and do my justice snooping without bugging you?”
He runs his fingers through his hair as if frustrated, but the small laugh shows otherwise. “Just let me buy you dinner to do some ounce of repayment for my horrible comments. We might not get along, but the way I spoke to you crossed a line. A bag of chips and an apology isn’t going to cut it for me.”
I stare at him with scrunched lips as if contemplating. I should agree, of course. This is exactly what I am here to gain—more access to his time. But I must put up somewhat of a fight to seem legit. After about five seconds, I consider my attempts a success. “Okay, I will have dinner with you, but…”
“But?”
“But you have to tell me one nice thing about me.”
