Page 12 of Stalked By the Wolf

True to his word,Sebastian left a stack of clothes on the bed: a soft navy T-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants. The shirt is so long it could be a dress, and the sweats are way too big. But once I knot the drawstring below my bump, they’re actually really comfortable. Sebastian’s rich leather-and-bergamot scent clings to the garments, and I can’t stop myself from sighing as I hold the fabric up to my nose.

Padding down to the kitchen, I try not to imagine what it would be like to stay here with him — soaking in that luxurious tub every night, lounging around in Sebastian’s clothes, and snuggling up in front of the fire with my handsome wolf.

I give myself a little shake. What the hell has gotten into me? Sebastian’s notmyanything. He’s just being nice to me because he feels sorry for me — or because he’s worried I’m going to tell the world that he can turn into a wolf.

The smell of cinnamon and maple syrup tugs me out of my pathetic train of thought. Sebastian is standing at the stove, flipping pieces of French toast in a skillet. The edges are deliciously fried, and my stomach grumbles.

He lifts his head as I approach, and something in his expression changes. His eyes rake down my body, roving over the swells of my breasts before stopping at my abdomen. A hungry look sweeps over his face, and for a moment, I see a flicker of the wolf in his eyes.

Belatedly, I realize my mistake. I’ve always had small breasts — small enough that I could get away with not wearing a bra. The pregnancy has made them grow nearly two cup sizes already, and while I thought the T-shirt was baggy enough, the thin material hides nothing. My peaked nipples are visible through the fabric, and the swell of my belly is obvious.

For several heartbeats, we just stare at one another, but then Sebastian averts his eyes. “I hope you don’t mind breakfast for supper,” he says, that scrumptious British accent doing funny things to my stomach. “I usually have groceries delivered, but with the snow . . .” He trails off. “Bread and eggs are all I have in the house.”

“Breakfast for supper sounds amazing,” I say, taking a seat at the counter where he’s already plated some food for me.

I coat the French toast in warm maple syrup before taking a bite, making an appreciative sound in my throat. “It’s delicious,” I groan.

The corner of his mouth twitches, and he continues to watch me eat with a mixture of amusement and satisfaction.

“Sorry,” I mumble, realizing I’m eating like an animal. “Being pregnant makes me hungry.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s rather adorable, actually.” And, bless him, he serves me another slice of French toast. “You’re eating for two, remember.”

“How could I forget? It’s one of the few perks of being pregnant.”

“Ah, yes. Must be bloody annoying, I suppose. You can’t drink. You can’t smoke. No deli meats or soft cheeses . . .”

I shake my head. “It isn’t that.”

The last fifteen weeks have been the loneliest of my life, which is ironic since I’m never alone. Not with the baby growing inside me.

I suck in a breath and let it out in a huff, trying to put it into words. “It’s just . . . I always thought I’d have someone to share this with.” I rub a hand over my belly, delighting in the tiny bump I feel there. “Getting that positive pregnancy test . . . doctor’s appointments . . . the first time I feel him kick.”

I cried for two days when I first found out. I spent most of the weekend huddled on the bathroom floor, leaving only to buy more pregnancy tests.

As soon as I saw those two little lines, I knew I had to end things with Dane. I just didn’t know how.

“I’m sorry you haven’t had that,” says Sebastian quietly. And I get the feeling he genuinely means it.

I shrug. “It is what it is.”

He opens his mouth as if he wants to say something but then closes it again.

“So,” I say, eager to change the subject. “You know a little about me, but I don’t know anything about you.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “I’m not that interesting.”

“You don’t rescue elderly cats for a living, so what is it that you do?”

To have this incredible house, he must do something pretty damn special.

“I’m a freelance pen-tester.”

I frown. “Like you test out pens?” I mime writing in the air, and Sebastian snorts.

“No. It’s short for penetration testing — sort of like an ethical hacker. Tech companies pay me to hack into their systems to show them where the vulnerabilities are. Occasionally, the authorities will request my services to ID black-hat hackers and track cyberterrorists.”

My mouth falls open. His jobisimpressive.

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