Page 17 of A Beta Protects

“Your beautiful mate is liable to kick it worse if you don’t quit laying it on so thick,” Sierra mutters as Galen wraps an arm around her shoulder and kisses the top of her head.

He blows out a heavy sigh. “You see what you have to look forward to?”

Sierra looks confused. She wouldn’t have heard that Kira is my mate, but Galen will soon tell her. Mates don’t keep secrets from each other. I could have asked him not to say anything, but I’m not ashamed of Kira being my mate, and it’s not like it wouldn’t have come out anyway.

“And Dom?”

I pause, angling my head back.

Galen has his arm wrapped around Sierra’s shoulders, and his amusement has faded. “We’ll figure this out together.”

I nod. Turning away from the house, I head deeper into the forest, wanting to peer up at my bedroom window in case Kira is standing in it like she did before. I’d scared her, and I have no intention of doing it again, even accidentally.

I’d shifted, but my wolf hadn’t wanted to leave her, so I’d been watching the window when she’d opened the drapes and caught me staring up at her as I fought the urge to go to her.

It’s early, but Pack Hunt sits on six acres of land. All private, on the edge of town, and so remote that I’m not in danger of bumping into any locals. But I wander a little further than I ordinarily would, just in case Kira ventures out for a walk, she won’t trip over my clothes and wonder what happened to the man.

It takes seconds to strip out of my clothes, the sun warming my bare skin on this bright, blue skied late morning. Then I drop to my knees and my wolf, never far from the surface, especially since Kira arrived, bursts out of me.

It takes everything to run away from the house and not to it where my mate is in my room, maybe curled up in my bed, smelling of me…

She is here, and I cannot touch her like I want to, or be with her like I need to. But I take comfort that she’s here at all, and that I have the opportunity to give her every single reason to stay.

7

KIRA

Iskip lunch, hiding out in the spare room as my stomach gurgles and growls at me. Not as loud as that wolf with the gold eyes howled last night, but close.

Food is appealing, especially when the savory scent of frying chicken wafts up the stairs, but I stay resolutely focused on aiming my hairdryer at my damp T-shirt.

If I’m going to be staying, and maybe even interviewing for a job, I can’t do that in a damp, handwashed T-shirt. I need it to be dry, and I need to dig out an iron from somewhere to deal with these damned creases.

My long, black denim skirt is fine. The white sneakers are not ideal for impressing any would-be employer, but it works. So does braiding my hair tightly back so no one can tell that for the last few days, I’ve been combing my fingers through it in lieu of a brush.

I spend nearly an hour sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room in my damp bra and skirt, with the hair dryer I found in the bathroom, periodically blasting hot air at my T-shirt. It’s only periodically because it gets too overheated that it switches itself off every five minutes.

As boredom and frustration sets in, my eyes slide to the chest of drawers on my right. Maybe there’s something more interview worthy than a gray wrinkled T-shirt.

I tell myself not to go digging through a dresser I have no business riffling through.

Dom has given me a place to stay. Keyword being stay. Not root around in a dresser, no matter how tempting it is, especially when no one would even know if I opened just one drawer to check if there wasn’t like a T-shirt I could wear to an interview.

A T-shirt that may help me get a job I so sorely need.

The hairdryer cuts out. Again.

Muttering a curse under my breath, I switch it off, pull my T-shirt back on, hoping the cool air blowing through the open window will finish off my task for me. I get up and cross over to investigate the dresser.

It’s just a T-shirt, I tell myself. And this is a spare room, so anything I find will probably be stuff no one needs or wants. Maybe they use the dresser as extra storage for stuff they’ll eventually donate?

I open the first drawer and immediately slam it shut again.

Then I turn around, stare at the bedroom door, the bed, and every corner of the room to identify if I somehow missed the fact that this isn’t the spare room that Dom led me to believe. This is someone’s bedroom.

A guy’s bedroom, complete with a drawer full of men’s black boxers.

There are no pictures on the walls or décor gracing the bedside table. Just your run of your mill lamp, a simple black curtain, a bed with a gray comforter, and a dark brown dresser. That’s it.

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