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696 Words
Lizette knew better. Dom might not be related to the fierce she-wolf who’d suckled the founder of Rome, but he was a formidable opponent. Although it rankled, she wasn’t about to test him. If she’d learned anything over her years of dealing with testosterone-poisoned males, it was to pick her battles. And this was just a skirmish. The real battle lay two hundred miles north, in a tiny town steps from the Canadian border.
If she had to concede defeat, she was going to do it on her own terms— and before someone got blood on her area rug. She marched to her bedroom, Dom on her heels. “All right,” she said over her shoulder. “Let me grab a bag.”
She shut the door in Dom’s face with a satisfying click.
LIZETTE’S HANDS shook as she threw clothes in the large pink duffel bag she used for the gym. She didn’t even bother removing the dirty yoga pants and sports b*a at the bottom. “This is temporary,” she said under her breath. “He promised me. It’s a temporary thing.”
“Like a vacation, hmm?” Remy said from the doorway. He closed the door and leaned against it, his long, muscled body concealing most of the white woodwork. The bright color was one of the reasons she picked the apartment. After years in the brooding Lodge, with its gloomy, ever-present stained walnut, she’d been instantly drawn to this cheery, feminine space.
“I don’t remember inviting you in.” She tossed a few bras in the bag.
“You should, ah, put one of those on,” he said meaningfully.
She glanced down at her chest. Not being blessed with curves, she sometimes went without a b*a. It was cold in Albany that morning, and she wore a puffer vest to work, figuring no one would notice her braless state, but removed it on the drive home. The heater in her old Honda had two settings: nuclear and surface-of-the-sun.
She grabbed one of the bras she’d thrown in the bag and faced away from him so she could do the whole arms-out-b*a-clasp-arms-in shimmy thing.
“It’s gross for you to point that out, you know.”
“You pointed it out first, if you get my meaning.”
She snorted against her will. She tugged her sweater into place and turned back to him. “What was that about?” she mouthed, gesturing toward the living room.
His smile disappeared like the sun behind a cloud. “Nothing.”
“Is it the Beta position?”
Surprise flitted across his face. “I don’t give a s**t about that.”
“Well, what is it, then?”
He shook his head. His mouth flattened into a stern line that said she’d get no answers from him, no matter how much she teased and cajoled.
She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow.
“Just…don’t ask right now.” He glanced away. “Please.”
The “please” got to her—along with the miserable look on his face. Something was definitely going on between him and Dominic. It was the first time she’d seen anything come between them. Werewolves lived longer than humans—about a hundred and thirty years—and they reproduced sparingly. Most mated pairs had just one offspring. A fortunate few like her mother’s parents managed to give their child a sibling. Small families were the norm, which meant friendships were usually close-knit and lifelong.
Dom and Remy might not be related by blood, but they were as close as brothers. Whatever was bothering Remy, it was big.
She wanted to press him, but she knew he’d come to her when he was ready. “Okay,” she said. “Let me know if you feel like talking.”
“You need help packing?”
She gave him a look to let him know she recognized the deliberate change of subject. “No, thanks. I’m almost done. I don’t need much, since I won’t be staying long.”
“Mmmm.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What?”
- Writer
