Scout: Reckless Desires (Norseton Wolves Book 7) (13 page)

Paul was a bonus prize. There hadn’t been a whole lot of bonuses in her life up until that point, and she craved having some, but she wasn’t going to die without him.

She just wanted him, and she wasn’t going to feel guilty for that. She suspected that in her new pack of alpha wolves, no one was going to criticize her for being aggressive. In her own way, she was making the pack stronger. What better addition than a Viking?

Paul stepped outside the hospital at one o’clock with his stomach growling and brain processing slowly from lack of proper sustenance all day.

He should have psychically sensed the wolf nearby before he saw her, but she took him completely off guard. Sitting on the ledge of the planter box around one of the trees in front of the hospital, she sat with her fingers entwined atop her crossed knees, glowering at him.

So cute when she glowers.

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Cute doesn’t matter if she’s mad.

“Are you hungry?” he asked on an exhalation and opened his eyes. “I was going home for lunch.”

She blinked several times at him and then squinted.

Yeah, she’s pissed.

He knew why already. Queen Tess didn’t make a habit of telepathically yelling at people from across the community, but while he’d been stitching up a laceration on Catherine Faye’s finger, he’d heard Queen Tess clear as day: “
You dickhead.
”

He hadn’t bothered asking what the insult was in reference to. He could guess.

And maybe he deserved being berated. She’d warned him not to wait to finish connecting with Petra, and he’d done the exact opposite.

He nodded his head in the general direction of his apartment building and held out his elbow for her to take. “Not a far walk. Place is even semi-clean, for once.”

She didn’t respond. She canted her head. Stared at him like she was trying to pick a good place to bite. He probably deserved that sort of pain, too.

“Talk to me, Petra, unless your plan is to make me stand here all day staring at you. Not that that would be such an onerous thing, but there are far more productive ways for us to spend our time.”

“Where are your glasses?”

“My glasses?”

“You’re not wearing them.”

“Contrary to what you’ve witnessed in the past few days, I don’t wear them the vast majority of the time. They get in the way.”

“Oh.” She still didn’t move. “I like you better with the glasses,” she said in a quiet voice.

That was a new one for him. There was nothing even remotely fashionable about his glasses. If he hadn’t forked over the extra cash for super-thin lenses, he probably would have been able to use the sun to start a fire with them.

“Less intimidating,” she said.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

She shrugged.

“I’ll wear them if that makes you happy.”

She nodded. Twiddled her thumbs. She didn’t get up.

“Petra, are you waiting for a better lunch date, or do you really want me to grovel?”

“Depends. What are you groveling about?”

He could think of a few things. He was a “dickhead” on the best of days, but he suspected she wanted him to grovel for one specific thing. That wasn’t something he could do in an hour, and certainly not in front of his workplace.

He pinched the bridge of his nose again and took a few bracing breaths.

New strategy
.

“If you stand out here much longer, someone’s going to want to run another CT scan on you, or poke you to see how much werewolves bleed before they heal.”

She blinked at him again.

“Listen, I’ve only got an hour, and we’re wasting time on this sidewalk.”

“I’m supposed to be aggressive. Tess and Nadia said to be aggressive. That’s what I’m doing.”

“You’re failing.” He scooped her up, tossed her onto his shoulder, and started down the street.

She let out a frustrated sigh, but let her body hang limp.

He knew the feeling quite well. She didn’t
want
to want him, but she did, and he felt good to her.

“This is shameful,” she muttered. “Let me walk.”

“Now that you’re there, you may as well enjoy the ride.”

“The ride’s bumpy. Watch where you’re stepping.”

“You’re a werewolf who got thrown through a windshield and lived to tell the tale. I think you can handle a few curbs.”

“And that’s weird to you. That I’m not like you.”

He didn’t see the point of lying. The more time they spent together, the more easily she’d be able to discern what was bothering him—even without conversations. Afótama relationships tended to be efficient that way.

He rounded the corner and pulled his building’s key card out of his pocket. “Weird? Yeah. You’ve got to understand that I’ve been categorically avoiding relationships for my entire adult life so I didn’t get attached.”

“And you’re attached to me?”

He swiped the card, waited for the beep, and then tugged the door handle when the lock clicked.

At the barrage of cool air in the lobby doorway, he set Petra down and pulled her by the hand toward the stairs.

“Superficially,” he said. He started up the stairs.

She sluggishly followed, and he considered putting her back up on his shoulder.

She’d probably yell at me
. He didn’t want to be yelled at, even if she was cute when she yelled.

“What do you mean by superficially?” she asked.

“I think you know. I’m sure you’ve been cornered by Queen Tess, and she told you something wasn’t quite right with our connection.”

“She called you a wandering bull.”

He scoffed. That was a mild insult, as far as Queen Tess was concerned. Descended from Vikings or not, the lady had a shockingly colorful vocabulary.

Instinctively, apparently, Petra turned right at the top of the staircase and headed toward Paul’s apartment.

He stayed a few steps behind her to see if she’d pick the right one without his influence.

She did.

She stood on the doormat and made a “get on with it” gesture at him.

He unlocked the door.

There’s no running from her.

She not only had a wolf’s senses of direction and scent, but also a psychic link to him. She’d always be able to find him. There’d be no hiding.

He went straight for the kitchen, glanced at the microwave clock, and then cringed.

He had fifty minutes, at most, to get food into his belly and for him to figure out how to get over himself. He needed to let himself
have
her, if that was what she really wanted. He should have been more confident that she knew what she wanted, but he’d never had Chris’s certainty about things.

Is Petra real
?

She stood in the doorway with her arms over her belly, giving him that wide-eyed stare again.

She’s real. And…I’m hers.

“Do you want a sandwich?” he asked, standing in front of the open fridge. “Either that, or leftovers, but I don’t know how long that lo mein’s been in there.”

“It’s bad,” she said.

“How can you tell?” He pulled out the plastic container and sniffed the vent on top. Smelled fine to him, just a little flat.

“I’ve got a wolf’s nose. Maybe it smells okay to you, but it’s gonna taste sour.”

He pitched the container into the trash, and grabbed the sandwich fixings instead.

She stood in the corner, arms crossed, watching him quickly assemble turkey and cheese sandwiches. She liked mayonnaise and lettuce, but no tomato. When available, she liked a pickle on the side, but he didn’t have any. He needed to go shopping, and when he did, he’d instinctively pick up everything she liked because they were stuck with each other. He couldn’t
not
know her or how to take care of her.

And I want to
.

“Sorry I didn’t toast the bread,” he said, sliding her the plate. “Didn’t think about it until too late.”

She picked up the plate, warily, probably as disquieted by his efficiency as he was at the moment.

He moved her gently aside so he could open the fridge. He grabbed bottled waters, and then guided her out of the galley toward the dining room.

“How do you do that?” she asked.

“What? Know what you want?”

She nodded as she pulled out the chair beside him and sat.

“Probably the same way you know where I live, even though you’d never been here before.”

“That’s weird.”

He shrugged and took a big bite of his sandwich. As far as his stomach was concerned, he couldn’t possibly chew fast enough. “I’ve heard of weirder things.”

“Such as?”

“When Chris and the lady who’s now his wife got together, they swapped memories. He said it was like a crash course in getting-to-know-you. They got married, like, three weeks later.”

“That’s crazy.” She chewed quietly for a while, and then lifted her gaze to him. “Are they—you know.
Happy
?”

He could sense that she desperately wanted them to be happy. Seemed critical to her that they were, and she didn’t even know them.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I’ve never seen Chris happier. Or maybe
content
is the better word.”

“They’re comfortable.”

“Right. You can look at them and see that. They have an incredible ease around each other. They know each other’s ins and outs. All their soft spots and sore points. I think that made taking over fatherhood duties of her daughter that much easier for Chris, as well.”

“Sounds nice.”

“Most Afótama couples have at least a superficial psychic bond. Things get less predictable when a party in the relationship isn’t from the clan.”

“I see.” She chewed thoughtfully on a mouthful of sandwich, staring at her plate, not him.

He’d offended her again. He could offend her without even trying, apparently, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

Maybe I am a bull…the proverbial one in the china shop.

He didn’t know why he was sabotaging himself, except for fear.

But she was afraid, too. The more time he spent with her, the clearer that was. She was afraid he’d leave her, and he was afraid of the fucking reverse.

He didn’t want her to change her mind and decide he wasn’t quite right, or for him to learn that after all was said and done, his emotional investment hadn’t been worth the pain. He wasn’t a man who liked taking risks in relationships. That was why he could count his number of close friends on one hand. They already knew his ins and outs, and accepted him anyway. He didn’t have the constitution for rejection.

“So, you haven’t…
connected
with me the way you’re supposed to,” she said.

“No. I haven’t.”

“Do you want to?”

“Although I may not act like I do, yes.”

She nodded. Chewed.

She didn’t say anything else until her sandwich was gone and her water bottle half empty. “How much time do you have before you have to go back to work?”

He turned his phone over and woke up the screen. “About thirty-five minutes.”

“That’s not enough.”

“No, it’s not.”

And he wouldn’t dare offend her again by hurrying back to the hospital. She deserved better than that. Part of his job was to help knit her into the community, and he’d been incredibly remiss in making her feel at home.

Do better.
Stop hiding from her at work.

He fired off a text message, knowing that Chris was going to make him repay the favor, and probably soon.

His response confirmed as much.

CHRIS:
Fine.
I’ll take the rest of your shift today. You take my entire shift next Friday when the new Marvel movie hits the theater.

Paul cringed. He’d be looking at a sixteen-hour shift, at the very least. If he were lucky, though, the day would be quiet, and he could sneak off for a nap.

PAUL:
We’ve got a deal
.

After he responded, he turned off the phone.

“Chris is taking the rest of my shift this afternoon.”

She gave a slow nod and fiddled with her bottle cap.

“I’ve got nowhere else to be. How about you?”

She shook her head.

He pushed his plate away, grabbed his water bottle, and her hand. “Well, come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“We can do this slow or fast. You’ll be mad at me longer if we take the slow route. If we go fast, you might be a little disoriented for a few days.”

“You want to go slow?”

“I worry.”

“Because you—”

He pressed his hand over her mouth, spun her toward the door, and gave her a nudge. “No.
Not
because I plan on refusing you, but because I don’t think you’ll like me very much if we connect that way. My reputation isn’t completely undeserved. I frequently burn bridges in relationships.”

“You don’t have to be friends with everyone,” came her muffled voice from behind his hand. “My mother used to tell Arnold and me that. Not everyone is meant to be in your company. You don’t have to give yourself to everyone.”

Oh.

She
did
understand.

But of course she would
.

He kept forgetting the way matches worked. She wouldn’t be his if she wasn’t capable of understanding him—of
tolerating
him.

He’d never been the sort of man who was prone to spontaneous acts of affection, but he wanted to kiss her. To praise her for understanding. He couldn’t yet, though. They still had talking left to do.

“I also don’t know what’s triggering your seizures, and psychic shit is neurologically taxing,” he said.

“I’ll take the risk.”

“I don’t know if I’m worth the risk.” He dropped his hand and got her moving again.

“Obviously, someone thinks so if they saw fit to put the two of us together. You let me worry about me.”

“That’s not the way this works.” He didn’t bother turning on the bedroom light. The sun was bright enough through the uncovered window, and he imagined they’d be doing more feeling than looking, anyway.

Seeing didn’t matter. She probably wouldn’t be awake for long.

He perched her on the edge of his bed and started freeing the buttons of yet another of her ugly shirts.

“I don’t remember this color combination ever being in style,” he said. “Purple and green sort of hints at a certain famous dinosaur.”

“Function over fashion.” She traced her fingertips up his forearms as he worked. Touch for no particular purpose. An Afótama tendency, and perhaps just one of Petra’s, too.