Page 11 of Riding with the Rejected Wolf

"Yeah," he says, his voice gravelly. "I know that feeling all too well."

I take a deep breath and continue, "It started harmless enough. He'd stop by my desk, make small talk, bring me coffee. Then one day, he asked me out for dinner. I declined, of course, but he didn't take no for an answer. It was subtle at first—flowers on my desk, notes slipped into my purse. Then it escalated. He'd show up outside my apartment, send me gifts I never wanted, find ways to insert himself into my life." My voice cracks, and I'm grateful for the whiskey's numbing effect.

Silas's jaw tightens, a muscle twitching near his temple. "And this went on for how long?"

"Months," I admit, my grip tightening around the glass. "I was afraid at first to go to the cops at first. I didn’t want to risk losing my job, and he hadn’t done anything they’d consider threatening enough to give me a restraining order. But then one night, I came home to find my apartment ransacked. Nothing was taken, but... everything was moved. Like he wanted me to know he’d been there.” The memories flood back, each one sharper and more painful than the last. "I went to the police then, filed restraining orders, but nothing worked and I knew I couldn’t stay in New York anymore.

Silas leans back, a dark look settling on his face. "So, you ran."

"Yeah," I say, wiping a stray tear from my cheek. "I ran. Changed my name, cut ties with everyone I knew, only took jobs that paid cash. I thought I could stay ahead of him." My fingers drum against the glass in a nervous rhythm. "But he's always one step ahead, always finding me. I’m exhausted, Silas. I can't keep living like this."

Silas's piercing blue eyes lock onto mine, and I swear I see them flash a bright amber for just a second. Maybe it's the low light or the whiskey playing tricks on me. I blink, and the moment's gone.

"Anyway, that's the whole secret. It’s why I came out here," I say, downing the last of my whiskey and reaching again for the bottle. "I thought if I hid in the middle of nowhere, he'd finally give up.” I pour myself another glass and offer to top up Silas’s, but he refuses with a lifted hand. “But deep down, I know he won't quit. He'll find me eventually, and I’m afraid of what he'll do when he does."

Silas’s jaw tightens, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “He’s not going to find you here, Mika. Not while I’m around.” His voice is low, gravelly, and I can tell he means every word.

“Easy to say,” I mutter, swirling the whiskey around in my glass. The liquid catches the dim light, reflecting my muddled thoughts. “But you don’t know him like I do. He’s relentless.”

When I lift my eyes to him, I can’t help but notice the way his muscles ripple under his shirt, the rugged handsomeness of his features, the intensity in his eyes. There's something magnetic about him, something that draws me in despite the fear that still lingers in the back of my mind, telling me I shouldn’t be trusting anyone.

Silas’s lips curl into a half-smile, but it’s more grim than reassuring. “Relentless doesn’t scare me, Mika. Hell, I invented relentless.” He leans back in his chair, eyes never leaving mine. “Besides, you’re not fighting this alone anymore.”

"I don’t have any money to pay you," I whisper, taking another sip from my glass.

Silas bounces his shoulder dismissively. “I don’t want your money, sweetheart. Some things…” He pauses, as if he’s trying to weigh each word carefully. “...are worth more than cash. Like seeing that bastard get what's coming to him.” His eyes darken, a storm brewing behind those blue depths, and I know he means it. “The club’s got resources, and we take care of our own. You’re under our protection now.”

Relief washes over me, an unexpected wave that leaves me feeling light-headed. For the first time in years, I allow myself to believe I might actually have a chance here. My fingers loosen their death grip on the glass, and I set it down gently.

"Thank you, Silas. Really." The words feel inadequate for the weight they carry. I try to smile, but it wobbles, half-formed and fragile. "The least I can do is make us some dinner. I’m a pretty decent cook, you know."

He raises an eyebrow, a playful glint breaking through his stern exterior. "You don't have to do that, Mika,” he says, but I'm already on my feet. I need to do something with this restless energy. The kitchen’s small, but it has the basics—pots, pans, and a fridge that hums quietly in the corner. I start rummaging through the cabinets, scouting out anything I can use.

Silas stands up, following me with that easy grace he seems to have mastered. He leans against the counter, watching me with a curious mix of amusement and concern. “Need some help?”

“Ah, no. I’ve got it.” I dig out a bag of rice, some canned beans, and a few spices. My mind races with potential recipes as I turn a little too quickly, the bag of rice slipping from my hands and exploding on the floor like a tiny avalanche. Rice scatters everywhere, cascading over my feet and bouncing into every corner of the cramped kitchen.

"Oh, crap," I mutter, dropping to my knees as if I can somehow scoop it all back into the bag with sheer willpower. The absurdity of it all—trying to pick up each grain of rice, the sheer futility of the task—hits me like a sucker punch. A lump forms in my throat, and before I can stop it, hot tears spill down my cheeks.

Silas is in front of me in an instant. His strong, warm hands wrap gently around my arms, pulling me up from the floor and into his arms. “It’s OK, sweetheart,” he says softly, a strange contrast to the rugged toughness in his voice. “You’re safe now.”

I collapse against his chest, the weight of years of running and hiding crashing down on me all at once. It’s not the spilled rice that broke me—it’s the realization that I’m not alone anymore. The scent of leather and a faint hint of motor oil clings to him, grounding me, reminding me that he’s real, that this moment is real. I clutch at his shirt, fingers digging into the fabric as if it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to sanity. My sobs are raw, ugly, a catharsis I didn’t know I needed.

Silas’s hands rub soothing circles on my back, each stroke melting a little more of the tension away. I can feel his breath against my hair, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. “You’re doing great,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “Just let it all out.”

“I don’t even know why I’m crying,” I manage to choke out between sobs, the words catching in my throat like jagged rocks. “It’s just rice.”

He tilts my chin up gently, forcing me to look into his eyes. Those blue depths are softer now, almost tender. “It’s not just rice, Mika. It’s everything you’ve been holding in. It’s everything you’ve survived until now.”

I blink up at him, my vision blurry with tears. His gaze is so intense, it feels like he’s seeing right through me, peeling back the layers of fear and doubt to reveal the raw nerve endings beneath. For a moment, we just stand there, locked in this private bubble of vulnerability and unspoken truths. His thumb brushes away a stray tear from my cheek, and I swear the world narrows down to just the space between us.

“Silas…” My voice is barely a whisper, just a wisp of sound that mingles with the silence of the room. His name feels like a lifeline, a tether anchoring me to this moment, to this man who’s somehow managed to crack through my tightly woven defenses.

He leans in slightly, his breath warm against my skin. “Mika,” he answers back, voice husky and low, and suddenly it’s like the air between us is charged, electric. Every nerve in my body is hyper-aware of him, his presence, his touch. My heart races, competing with the wild rhythm of my thoughts.

We stay like that for a beat longer than necessary, just breathing each other in. Then, almost reluctantly, his lips brush against mine—so softly, it's like a whisper carried on the breeze. It's tentative, testing the waters, but the spark it ignites is anything but gentle. I gasp against his mouth, and before I can overthink it, my hands are fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. Our kiss deepens, turning into something fierce, desperate, almost primal. It’s like we’re both drowning and this kiss is our only source of air. His hands find my waist, pulling me against him with an urgency that matches my own. Every touch sends a jolt of electricity through my veins, each second stretching into eternity.

Never in my life have I been kissed this way—like he’s trying to breathe life back into my broken soul. Silas’s hands are everywhere, grounding me and making me feel alive all at once. His thumbs trace soothing circles on my hips as his lips continue their assault, leaving me no room to hide, no space to retreat.

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