The Wolf in Sheep's Skin

Chapter 3

She took her sweet time eating, but I didn’t mind one bit. Her eyes were glazed over in a milk drunk stupor, and she slowly blinked at me. After she finished, I burped her, and held her against my chest, getting as many baby snuggles as I could.

I rubbed her back, humming to her as she slept; my eyes glazed over, and my shoulders dropped.

I scooted back on the couch, allowing it to support me, and glanced around the room. The architecture was exquisite, with intricate details carved into the mantel of the fireplace.

The man on the couch was close by in his armchair and seemed to be as relaxed as I felt. He sat with his arms spread wide open, laying on each of the sides of his chair. He wore well shined black dress shoes, fitted black dress pants, and an ironed black button-down shirt that was tucked into his pants.

The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, showing off unscarred skin that matched his face. And his face was a work of art. A strong jaw line, full lips, and nice brow structure that would make any man jealous of his luck with the gene pool.

Messy brown hair matched his scruffy facial hair. The stubble on his cheeks looked like he needed a fresh shave, but judging by the multiple empty bottles of whiskey next to him, I doubted shaving was on his mind.

Does he live in the pack house? Did they have some kind of celebration last night? Today’s a big day for the pack. It’s the first event of the year, the first pack meeting in spring. Maybe he got overzealous in his celebrations?

I tried to picture what might’ve happened last night, but I had no clue what pack members got up to, other than big events like today.

His chest slowly rose up and down as he slept. I flexed my hand and imagined the feeling of his stubble on my palm. Whether it would be rough or soft. My stomach fluttered at the thought of sitting on his thick, muscular thighs as my hands gripped his shoulders. His calloused hands tracing my up thighs-

The door to the room slammed open, making me jump. My cheeks burned, and I sucked in a breath.

I was just ogling him and he’s not even conscious! Shame swirled in my core. This is the opposite of having control, Gwen!

“Auntie Gwen, look!” A high-pitched boy’s voice said as small feet raced towards me. Henry, my nephew, held up a chocolate chip cookie that was bigger than his face.

“Oh, wow!” was all I managed to say. At least it’s not an adult. He can’t hear my heartbeat. It pounded against my ribcage like it was trying to burst out of my chest.

“He’s big!” Henry shouted through a mouth full of cookie, pointing at the man. His eyes got wide, and he bounced on the balls of his feet.

“He is.” I’d noticed too. The man was too big for the chair, his arms and legs sprawled out like there wasn’t enough space for them. The poor little armchair looked like it was trying to spit him out before it broke under him.

“Look at his hands!” Henry got closer to him and pointed to the man’s large, calloused hand, that was still holding an empty glass.

“Give him some space. Remember what Grandad told you about sneaking up on old wolves while they’re asleep?” I’d never expect an old wolf to hurt a child if startled awake, but it wasn’t a good habit to get into. Besides, we were new in the pack, and he was drunk.

“How can you tell he’s old?” Henry titled his head to the side and glared at me.

Henry was Ava’s sister, with matching dark brown hair and hazel eyes. He squinted at me, and I readied myself for his defiance.

“He’s sleeping in a packed house full of new wolves. Plus, we’re new in the pack and he hasn’t woken up from our scent.” He could just be too drunk to notice us, but that’s a whole different reason for Henry to stay back.

“He doesn’t have scars,” Henry huffed like he’d won the conversation and proved me to be an i***t.

“Are you sure? He could have some we can’t see.”

“All old wolves have scars on their face.”

“Who told you that?”

“Grandad has scars on his face.”

“Grandad isn’t the only old wolf. Knowing a wolf is old isn’t something you can see, it’s something you can sense. I’m telling you, he’s old.”

Henry squatted, his cookie in one hand, and reached for the man’s pant leg with the other. What the h*ll is he doing? Henry grabbed the hem of the man’s pants, and a low growl left my throat.

“Henry, do not touch him!” I snarled, making him flinch. He dropped the man’s pants and glared at me with pure, unadulterated toddler rage.

“You can’t tell me what to do!” He stomped a foot and clenched his hands at his side.

“I can, and I’m telling you not to touch him!” I hissed under my breath, fully aware of how close Henry was to the man. My stomach twisted into knots, knowing I’d startled my own dad awake when I was little.

He’d never hurt me, but I didn’t know nor trust this man.

Jay

Keeping my mouth relaxed while listening to the boy argue with his mother was more challenging than I’d expected. My head was floaty from the alcohol, and he was ruthless as he stomped his foot next to mine, huffing.

“I’m not touching him.”

My skin on my outer thigh next to him itched, and I knew he had to be pointing at my leg. The timeless game of not-touching-someone. I fought back a snort, keeping my body perfectly relaxed, pretending to be asleep. It was a useful skill I’d mastered long ago.

“Henry Finnegan O'Neill, you leave that man alone right now.” His mother hissed at him.

“I am leaving him alone. See, I’m not touching him.”

What a troublemaker. She must have her hands full; children usually hate being near me.

“Henry, you know what I mean. You’re going to wake him up.”

Too late. You woke me up when you came in here and hummed to that baby.

A funny thought crossed my mind, and I couldn’t contain the small smile that crossed my lips. What an awful idea! But maybe it’ll get the boy to listen? Give the mother some relief? They’re new to the pack; there are people here I wouldn’t want him poking around while they’re asleep.

“He’s sleeping, what’s it matter?” The boy asked and tugged on the glass cup in my hand.

I let out a roaring growl, sat up, and stretched my arms high above my head like I was a monster.

The boy fell on his bottom and let out a shriek. His cookie broke in half, part of it lay on the floor, and the other part remained in his hand. His eyes were wide, and his mouth hung open.

My arms slapped my legs as I dropped them, and my chest rumbled with laughter. Tears blurred my vision as I laughed harder than I had in years. I wiped them away and coughed, trying to regain composure.

The baby fussed, and the mother shushed it. She watched me with wide eyes as she rubbed the baby’s back, and the distinct scent of anger filled the room.

F*ck. Maybe my joke wasn’t so funny.

The cloudy haze of alcohol drifted from my mind, and I mentally kicked myself.

I frowned and eyed the little boy, who was still sitting on the ground. His face turned from fear to anger, and he jumped to his feet.

“That wasn’t funny!” He shouted at me, stomping his little foot.

“No? Maybe it wasn’t. You’re quite cheeky; how old are you?” I can’t remember the last time a child shouted at me. They normally hide or run away.

“I’m six, and I’m not cheeky!” He let out an impressive growl and his face turned red.

“Well, Henry’s who's six. You’d better do as you’re told. I might have found this funny, and had been awake the whole time, but you might not get so lucky with other wolves in this pack. You should never mess with a sleeping wolf, especially one you don’t know. It’d do you well to listen to your mother.”

I pointed to his mother, who was still calming the fussy baby.

“Gwen’s not my mom.” Henry’s face twisted from anger to confusion, and he stared at me like I was stupid.

I shot my attention back to the woman on the couch. Her eyes were big, and her mouth opened and closed as she struggled for words.

“They’re not mine. I don’t have a mate. I mean, I’m their aunt.” She rambled, her words tumbling over one another.