Page 61 of Wrestling With Werewolves

I consider Iggy’s new pet—Dirk’s old hunter hellhound, Minnie—and I’m not sure a flaming dog would really bring anyone comfort, but Iggy means well.

Connall’s emotions are easy for me to read as his alpha. Indecision, guilt, worry, regret, resignation. He stares into the distance for a few moments, then back to Iggy and me. “Maybe I should try helping.”

“Yeah,” Iggy says as if it’s obvious. “You’d probably do a way better job than me. She can only eat so many snacks.”

“C’mon, gentlemen,” I encourage, turning toward downtown again. “Let’s go take care of business.”

And then I’m rushing home to my woman. I’ve got ideas for this evening and I can’t wait to carry them out.

Hours later, I’ve checked in at Bad Axe, and the bar’s raging as usual, but my bar manager has the crowd handled. I’m not technically on the schedule again for a few days, although I end up here every day anyhow.

I comm Lola, but she doesn’t answer, so I head to her place to see if she’s home. No answer there, either, and when the treehouse lets me in, it’s obvious she hasn’t been there for hours.

Worry begins to build as I comm her a second time. That call goes unanswered too. I message Connall to check if he’s seen her since we got back, and he hasn’t either.

On a whim, I head to my place, wondering if she sought refuge there. Maybe I’ll find her on the sofa, playing her guitar. Or waiting for me. Gods, what if I open the door and she’s naked, or in the bed edging herself until I get there?

My dick leaps in my pants at the thought.

I pick door B, Big Daddy growls. He laughs when his commentary startles me. Forgot I was here?

You’ve been quiet.

Need Luna. Waiting for the moment I can speak to her without praying you’ll accurately relay my thoughts.

Your thoughts are all about sex, and sometimes, it’s not the right time.

Inaccurate. He laughs. It’s only about sex ninety-eight percent of the time.

Huffing, I consider that he’s correct, for the most part. Aside from random commentary about me needing to manhandle my packmates rather than using words like a grown male, he’s mostly focused on Lola.

I mull that over as I ascend my stairs. Her scent is strong here, oranges and cream and jasmine so heady, I pause in the stairwell to suck in great heaving breaths of her.

She’s here.

By the time I make it to the top of the stairs, I’m certain she’s inside. But I still don’t expect the vision when I open the door.

My place is torn apart, all the furniture moved to the sides of the main room. The sofa’s been turned away from the glass front wall, and it’s piled high with blankets and pillows. The box of photographs I gave her is on the kitchen counter.

Fuck. Yes, Big Daddy moans in my brain. Bring it on, omega.

As my brain catches up to what I’m seeing, Lola emerges from my bedroom, rounding the island with an armful of blankets and clothes.

My clothes.

T-shirts and sweaters and collared shirts. All of them, seemingly.

She halts and blanches when she comes flush with the door and sees me. The pile falls out of her arms onto the floor.

“Oh, Richard, gods, I’m so sorry. I just…I needed to see you, but you were busy, of course. And so I came here, and the treehouse let me in, and then I just, I just…” She throws both hands on top of her head as if the words have overwhelmed her.

The treehouse is drenched in Lola’s scent, and as I cross to her, it flares wild and bright and strong. She looks up at me with those beautiful, startling dark eyes, her pupils blown wide and lips parted. A thin sheen of sweat coats her neck and chest.

I reach out and stroke the backs of my knuckles along her jawline. “You’re nesting, Sweetheart.”

“I know,” she murmurs. “And I’m so sorry I came here and did it in your?—”

Bending down, I silence her protest with my mouth as Big Daddy pants and paces in our shared space. This kiss is tender, adoring, gentle. But not for long.

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