Page 12 of Wolf Fated

Never again.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I make my way back to my room and begin gathering my things, my movements sharp and efficient. After a quick shower, I stuff my clothes haphazardly into my suitcase, not caring if they become wrinkled or creased in the process.

All that matters is getting out of here, putting this strange little town and the dangerous allure of the man in charge behind me. Self-preservation at its best.

I don’t even know where I’ll go. It’s not like I have many choices. I can’t knock on a relative’s door and ask to stay for a while. All I can hope for is to find another hotel as nice as this one. Keep driving until I find a place I can see myself staying for a while. It’s the one and only benefit of truly being alone in the world.

As I sling the bag over my shoulder and make my way to the front desk, I catch sight of Cindi's expectant gaze, her green eyes shining with a disappointment that I can't quite place.

"Checking out already?" she asks, her tone laced with curiosity and concern.

I nod, forcing a tight smile onto my lips as I fish in my pocket for my credit card. "The room was lovely, but I really should be on my way."

The words taste like ash on my tongue, a lie so blatant that even I can hear the hollowness behind them, but I push forward nonetheless, handing Cindi my card and waiting for her to process the payment.

Except it doesn't go through.

She frowns, her brow wrinkles as she tries again, only to be met with the same error message. "That's strange. Let me try something else."

But no matter what she tries, the result is the same – my card is declined, leaving me with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that has nothing to do with the embarrassment of the situation.

As the realization hits me, a wave of dread washes over me, icy tendrils of fear snaking their way through my veins.

Oh God, what if Mark…

The thought is too horrible to contemplate, but as Cindi shoots me a look of genuine concern, I know that my worst fears have been realized, and without phone reception, I can’t access my bank account to conform. I swallow over the boulders in my throat. “I think my ex has cleaned me out. I…I don’t think I can pay for my room.”

The admission hangs heavy in the space between us, a damning truth that leaves me feeling exposed and vulnerable. I brace myself for the inevitable–the dismissive wave of the hand, the curt instruction to gather my things and be on my way.

But it never comes.

Instead, Cindi's expression softens, her lips curving into a reassuring smile as she reaches across the counter to give my hand a gentle, comforting squeeze. "Oh, honey, don't you worry about a thing. We'll get this sorted out, you'll see. My brother, Mitch will help."

Why would her brother help, and who even is her brother? Before I can protest, she's already picked up an antiquated CB radio and is calling someone who answers almost immediately. I recognize the sultry masculine tones and a fresh wave of dread oozes through me.

Cindi’s brother is the sheriff.

The man whose very presence sets my soul and panties ablaze with desire and trepidation in equal measure.

“It’s okay. He doesn’t have to help,” I stammer.

“I didn’t tell him you needed help, he’d tan my hide until it shone and I like my hide the color it is, thank you very much,” Cindi says.

A smile teases her lips and I think I’m missing something huge when the sheriff’s muscular form appears in the doorframe. His gaze immediately finds mine and just like that a sob tears itself from my throat, raw and guttural, as every ounce of fear, uncertainty, and humiliation comes crashing down upon me in a tidal wave of emotion.

I don’t stop to wonder how he got here so fast. Had he even left? I curl in on myself, my arms wrapped protectively around my midsection in a feeble attempt to hold myself together, but the tears keep streaming down my cheeks, hot and stinging.

I want to stop. I need to stop. But I can’t.

The sheriff moves toward me, his movements fluid and purposeful. And then, to my utter surprise, he guides me to a couch in the foyer and sinks down beside me. His muscular frame dwarfs my own before he pulls me into the shelter of his embrace. I stiffen instinctively, every nerve ending firing off warning signals as his arms encircle me, drawing me against the solid wall of his chest but instead of the suffocating confinement I had expected, calm washes over me, a feeling of safety and security that I haven't experienced in longer than I can remember.

"It's all right. Let it out, Sarah. You're safe here," he murmurs, his deep baritone rumbling against my cheek as he tucks my head beneath his chin.

And just like that, the dam breaks, as though his words, his presence was permission enough. Sobs wrack my body as every ounce of pain, every shred of heartbreak and disappointment that I've been harboring comes pouring out. I cling to him like a lifeline, my fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt as I make a mess on him.

He doesn't offer platitudes or empty reassurances, he simply rubs my back with his huge, capable hands and lets me cry. I don’t stop crying to wonder that this is exactly what I need him to do. Finally, when the sobs have subsided into the occasional hiccupping gasp, he tilts my chin up, his calloused thumb swiping away the lingering traces of moisture from my cheeks.

"Better?" he asks, his voice a low, soothing rumble.

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