Page 16 of Hunted

Chapter 8

Dominic

“I’mreallysorrytoput you out like this,” Abigail apologized to Dominic for what must have been the twelfth time.

She sat on the couch, feet up, resting with a plate of sausage and eggs on her lap. Outside, the morning sun permeated through the curtains, beading in and illuminating every pore on Abigail’s face. Part of him wished she’d quit apologizing. And part of him was relieved she was so kind, but he still wished she’d stick up for herself more.

“Like I said,” Dominic reassured her, “please don’t worry about it. Just let me take care of you.”

Since she had arrived, she had expressed endless guilt.

She felt guilty that he was making her breakfast.

She felt guilty that he put her to bed.

She couldn’t just enjoy her recovery. She had to feel indebted to him for doing what was expected.

As an alpha, it was his job to take care of his pack. He didn’t understand why she couldn’t see that truth.

He wished she would talk to him about what had happened… how she had gotten hurt. But no matter how many times he insisted, she still wouldn’t open up to him. It was very frustrating. He knew his wolf wanted justice for her, and his human half craved it, too.

But there was something more to her.

Anybody could have wandered into the pack and taken advantage of his generous nature, but he genuinely felt like he could trust Abigail. He didn’t just nurse every sick and injured wolf from other packs back to health. He felt a chill rise up his spine whenever she was around. His heart fluttered. Something about her wasspecial.

So because she wouldn’t talk about the incident, they talked about other things instead.

He loved talking to her. It was easy to pour out his heart to her. The words flowed so smoothly and without a hint of effort. He told her about the pack brewery his family had established decades ago, which brought in the pack’s money. It was the life’s work of his great-great-grandfather, who had immigrated from Ireland more than a century ago.

From the moment he could taste alcohol, Dominic had fallen in love with it—not the substance itself. No, the history and the intricacies of brewing it—all the ways you could tweak and play with the process. Before he took over the brewery, Dominic experimented with brewing in his temperature-controlled closet, back when money was harder to come by and he wasn’t alpha.

He could tell she wasn’t understanding the jargon, but she still listened like he was the most interesting person in the world.

And he listened to her talk about teaching—how it had always been what she loved, and even as a kid, she knew what she wanted to do with her life. She liked the impact she had on people.

She loved seeing the looks on people’s faces when they “got” it. She loved erasing their insecurities and helping them overcome their self-doubt. Teachers didn’t just change lives. They molded and created them.

And something about that struck Dominic as so wholesome.

Because his job was also about giving back. He did what he did because people loved beer. It was their entire escape from a hard day’s labor or a difficult situation.

“Hey, Abigail,” Dominic called. “I was wondering…”

He could see the anticipation on her face, and he briefly misread it as concern or apprehension. Maybe she didn’t like talking with him as much as he liked talking with her? But no. He was the alpha. He didn’t have time for self-doubt. “I was wondering if you wanted to talk over dinner tonight?”

Abigail looked confused, her brow furrowed. “You mean like we’re doing now?”

“No, no.” Dominic shook his head. “I mean I’d like to sit down with you, at the table, and chat over dinner. What do you like to eat? I can go pick it up.”

“So, like a date then?” Abigail’s eyebrows went up.

“If you want to call it that.” He could see her thinking as she stared at the living room television. He wondered what thoughts were running through her mind because she seemed conflicted.

“You know what?” Abigail finally announced. “I’d love to.”

Dinner that night, at Abigail’s insistence, was macaroni and cheese and fried chicken. She had stated she was fine with him picking it up to go because he’d already worked so hard to take care of her, but he was having none of that nonsense. What point was being a good cook if you could only feed yourself?

He bought gourmet cheeses for the macaroni and hand-crafted the pasta. His stepdad had taught him how to do it in Italy. He deep-fried the chicken himself because he’d bought the fryer years ago and felt bad for never having used it.

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