Page 10 of Wolf Promise

“You’ll pull it together in the end, Regina. You always do.”

“Thank you.” Keeping up appearances had always been what her grandfather most valued her for. Why had that recently started to bother her so much? Why did she want to ask for more from him when she knew he would never provide it?

“After all, you are your mother’s daughter and my granddaughter. Protecting the family legacy is in your blood.” He terminated the call before she could respond.

She placed her phone on a side table and thought about her grandfather’s words. She was both of the things he’d mentioned. And she was the CEO of a major corporation. Sometimes, she wished she could be just Regie, just herself. But that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, so she better suck it up.

Plus, now she would take on a new role. That of the fake fiancée of Bolt Varg.

Her thoughts returned to the brawny man she was fake engaged to. What was she supposed to do with him? She'd dated in the past, but her relationships had always taken a backseat to her work. Having someone actually stay with her, even if it wasn't a true relationship, ratcheted up her anxiety. She cradled the warm mug in her hand while she took a deep breath in, held it for a count of seven, and then breathed out again.

Repeating the exercise, she paid special attention to engaging her diaphragm and filling her lungs to capacity. The swirling dark energy inside her calmed somewhat, but refused to settle down completely. She'd managed to keep the frightening blackness under wrap during the meeting with Heimdall Shield, but the rest of the afternoon, she'd been on the verge of a major anxiety attack.

That's why she'd left the office early and sought the sanctuary of her apartment. This was the one place where she could always center herself and always find her calm. And so, the thought of letting a stranger live here for an undetermined time span felt like a big sacrifice, like an intrusion.

Her cell phone vibrated, skipping across the glass tabletop where she'd placed it. She caught it before it reached the edge and looked at the display. The concierge downstairs had sent a message asking if Bolt Varg was allowed access to her apartment. Regie's finger itched to click the no button, but she approved the request and then let out a big sigh.

Her reprieve was over.

Time to play yet another role in the drama that was her life.

Regie left her sanctuary on the balcony and placed the mug in the sink. Pacing while she waited for Mr. Varg to reach her door, she wiped her damp palms on her leggings. When she'd arrived from the office, she'd changed out of her work clothes and put on an oversized sky-blue knit tunic that reached the top of her knees. Underneath, she wore floral leggings in multiple shades of blue. She'd finished the outfit with fuzzy socks, also blue. Now, she second-guessed her outfit. Was it too casual? What kind of message did the clothes send?That she was obsessed with blue?

She clamped down on the hysterical laughter rising in her throat, and then mentally slapped herself. Why would the guy even have an opinion about her clothes? Her relationship with Mr. Varg was fake. Besides, she didn't need to impress him, even if he had been her real fiancé.

A knock sounded on the front door of the apartment, and despite her stern self-talk, Regie startled. She exhaled in a whoosh of air and went to greet her guest.

He wore a black leather jacket, and his shoulders seemed to stretch across the whole width of the doorway. Had he somehow put on more muscles since this morning?

"Can I come in?" he asked after Regina had gawked at him for a few seconds. A puzzled frown marred his forehead.

She blinked a few times and then cleared her throat. "I'm so sorry, yes, of course." Regie stepped back and opened the door wider to let him in.

He stepped into the apartment, a duffle bag in one hand and a motorcycle helmet in the other. A black leather messenger's back was slung across his shoulder and chest.

Of course, he rode a motorbike. He was bad boy personified, down to the faded blue jeans covering the shafts of square-toed black leather boots.

The fresh smell of soap lingered in his wake as he walked further into her home. His head slowly turned as he took in the open-plan kitchen and living room area. "Nice place. And that view is spectacular."

"Thanks, the view is my favorite part."

Mr. Varg put the helmet on her dining table and dumped the bag on the floor. "So," he said, "there are a few things we should go over." He pulled a laptop out of the messenger bag, put it on the table next to the helmet, and then shrugged out of the jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. Underneath, he wore a heather-gray Henley that stretched across his shoulders and biceps.

He pushed the sleeves up, exposing those corded forearms.

Oh boy.

There were a few reasons why Regie hadn't dated built men in the past. One of them was what her grandfather had pointed out in the meeting. Most of her boyfriends had been intellectuals who didn't have time or felt the need to spend time in the gym. But the biggest reason was that they were too much her type.

As in, her libido liked the body type too much.

Like, way, way too much.

She couldn't risk losing control of her hormones because she didn't know what the dark energy inside her would do in that situation. Since that horrible moment in the parking lot by the trailhead, eight years ago, she’d never lost control of her emotions again.

Mr. Varg cleared his throat, and she realized that she had been staring at him again. "I'm sorry," Regie said. "This is a lot to take in. I've never lived with a boyfriend before, fake or otherwise."

"Fiancé," he corrected, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "And if it makes you feel any better, neither have I."

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