Page 40 of The Alpha's Protective Mate

As we head inside, I keep looking around. Whoever was watching us left the moment he or she realized that we noticed. It bothers me that a vampire is hanging around Charlotte’s building. In any other scenario, I would assume that this was pre-planned, or that it was someone Charlotte was meeting, but that is no longer the case. She doesn’t have any contact with her kind. Also, the report Harry gave me about the vampires who attacked me revealed that Charlotte had fought them off and given them some serious injuries.

No, this isn’t something Charlotte planned. It could be that someone has figured out where she lives. But if they have—my eyes move toward the building—they would have no problem locating her apartment and breaking in.

My wolf is watchful; a growl rumbles in my chest at the idea of a threat to this woman.

Mine.

My wolf is rarely vocal, and this is the first time it’s laying a claim so blatantly. That is something I’ll have to deal with later.

Charlotte lives on the sixth floor, and when she begins to open her door, I notice the security system. Whoever set it up did a damn good job of it. I can’t smell anyone’s scent aside from hers, which means nobody has come to her apartment.

She flicks on the lights, and I hear a disgruntled meow. Mano is sitting in the doorway of the small entrance hall, and when she sees me, she stands up, stretches, and then trots over, completely ignoring Charlotte. She rubs herself against my legs before sniffing my chewed up shoes with a lot of interest.

I crouch down to pet her. “Hey, girl.”

She purrs loudly.

“Hussy,” Charlotte scoffs, amusement in her voice. “She’s just flirting with you. Completely shameless.”

Mano’s tail is straight as she licks my palm and then proceeds to sprawl herself across my shoes.

“Just take them off,” Charlotte advises, removing her own and placing them on a shoe rack. “I only wear slippers in the apartment. Easier to keep it clean.”

I take off my shoes, curious now about the place she calls home. It’s not a small apartment by any means, and as I look around, I notice cameras set up at different angles in the main rooms that I can see. There is also a balcony outside.

“This place belonged to Edgar Brown, didn’t it?” I ask idly. My research on Charlotte’s background was quite extensive.

Charlotte is quiet for a moment, then she nods. “Nobody would let a fifteen-year-old rent an apartment. I met him in a grocery store, around the block, actually. I was working there. My second job. I didn’t have a place to sleep that night, and he saw me talking to this guy who was telling me he had an extra room.” Her lips curve at the memory. “Edgar drove him off and scolded me. Anyway, he told me to come stay at his apartment. He had a bad leg, so all I had to do was clean up, do his grocery shopping, small things like that. He gave me my own room. He also tutored me in my classes when I needed help. I couldn’t cook, either, and he taught me.” I can hear the trace of grief in her voice. “He passed away three years ago. I didn’t even know he had willed the apartment to me. I never got to thank him for everything he did for me.”

I doubt she would be telling me all this if she weren’t still a little drunk. Sober Charlotte is quite private.

“You mattered to him.” There are still pictures of Edgar, and of the two of them, on the small fireplace mantel, and a cane that could only belong to an elderly man leaning behind the front door. She kept parts of him, a man who took her under his wing at a time when she was most vulnerable. “I guess he wanted to make sure that you were taken care of when he was gone. He cared about you.”

“He did.” Charlotte’s voice is filled with love. “He was the best part of my life.”

When I glance at her, she’s wiping her eyes. I automatically feel guilty. “Are you—”

“I’ll make us some coffee. I think I’m still a little drunk,” she says hastily, turning her back to me and heading into the kitchen.

I follow after her, becoming curious when I see a blanket and pillow on the long couch in the living room. “You sleep out here?”

“What?” Charlotte takes two mugs from the shelf. “Sleep where?”

“On the couch,” I reply, leaning against the door jamb.

“Oh.” She avoids my eyes. “Sometimes.”

She clearly doesn’t want to divulge more information, and I choose to mind my own business.

As she prepares the coffee, the silence between us isn’t awkward. Her gait isn’t completely even, but she has definitely begun to sober up.

“I guess you won’t be having a hangover in the morning,” I murmur, watching as she bunches her hair in her hands and winds it around into a bun. The smooth skin of her nape makes my eyes linger.

Charlotte gives me a look, and it’s filled with annoyance. “You knew that drink had alcohol in it, didn’t you?”

I grin.

“You could have warned me.”

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