Page 5 of Posing for the Artist Wolf

The fire caught quickly. Thank fuck for small mercies.

Claire shed her coat and inched closer, rubbing her arms. The firelight danced across her skin, highlighting the curve of her cheek, the arch of her neck. I wanted to reach for her, see if her skin felt as soft as it looked.

I tore my gaze away. Had to focus on something, anything else.

Tea. I could make tea. Earl Grey. Two sugars, a splash of milk. I’d watched her order it countless times at the diner.

Creepy fuck.

I filled the kettle and set it to boil, trying to keep my hands steady. My wolf paced beneath my skin, urging me to close the distance between us. I gripped the counter, knuckles white.

“So, uh, Briar House,” I said, desperate to break the awkward silence. “That’s your place, right?”

She blinked, surprise flickering across her face. “You know about Briar House?”

I shrugged, trying for nonchalance. “Small town.”

“Right,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I sometimes forget how quickly news travels around here.”

“Especially when it’s interesting news,” I said, returning her smile. “An outsider moving in to open an artist retreat? That’s practically front-page material.”

My wolf had certainly noticed. The moment I caught her scent on the wind, I was hooked. Cinnamon and blackberries—my new obsession. Then I’d gotten my first look of her. Those curves, the tattoos, those lips turning up into that smile? Fucking perfection.

So, I made up excuses to hang around Tall Pines when she stopped by for breakfast, or to pick up groceries from the general store. I told myself I just wanted to make sure the new human in town wasn’t a threat, but I knew that was a load of bullshit.

Mate.

The word echoed through my mind and sent a shudder down my spine. Claire occupied my every thought, my every fantasy. Every time I closed my eyes, she was there, her lips parted in a silent moan as I buried myself in her.

And now she stood in my kitchen, warming herself by my fire. Close enough to touch. To taste.

To lose control and hurt.

I shouldn’t have gone out in the storm. I’d wanted to check on her, that was all. I even vowed to myself if anything looked wrong—like her power had failed—I’d send Rafe to play friendly neighbor. How the fuck was I supposed to guess she’d try to lure a damn wolf into her house?

She laughed, a rich sound that warmed me from the inside out. “I suppose it would be. It’s been... an adventure, to say the least.”

“Yeah?” I leaned against the counter, genuinely curious. “How so?”

“The opportunity came at the right time. I don’t think I was cut out for the city art scene. All the hustling and networking you need to do? Without sticking your foot in your mouth?” She chuckled, but the sound was strangled and filled with half-truths. “Not my idea of a good time.”

The kettle whistled, startling us both. I fumbled for mugs and tea bags, then poured steaming water over the bags. The scent of bergamot hit the air, but a thin thread of sadness yanked my focus back to Claire.

“So, when my grandfather passed and left me Briar House...” She shook her head, drew in a breath, then pasted on a smile to meet my eyes again. “It just felt like fate, you know? I had some friends join me in the fall for a trial run, enjoyed the hell out of it, and the first real retreat is quickly filling for April.”

“I’m sorry about your grandfather,” I said softly. The words were inadequate, but they were all I had to offer. My wolf whined, urging me to comfort her, to pull her close and chase away the pain.

I turned with mugs in hands and found she had wandered to the desk. My heart jumped into my throat as she gently tugged the corner of my sketchbook from beneath the clutter.

“Shit,” I muttered under my breath, crossing the room quickly.

Too late.

“Oh, wow,” Claire murmured, eyes fixed on the charcoal sketches on the first spread. Her fingers trailed lightly over the pages, as if afraid she’d smudge the work. “Did you draw these?”

I wanted to lunge forward, snatch it away before she could see. No one saw that sketchbook. Not the finished drawings, not the half-formed ideas, and definitely not the pieces I’d done since Claire’s arrival in Mill Creek.

“Here,” I said, a bit louder, offering her the mug of tea.

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