Page 4 of Cowboy Wolf Christmas

Fuck.

2

From the moment Cheyenne entered Maverick’s office, she knew something was different. She was hyper-aware of that kind of thing. Light, sound, textures. Sensory details. The Christmas decorations, she’d expected, of course. They were there every year. Routine. Dependable. But what caught her attention was that her armchair had been moved further to the right, away from the fireplace, to where she could no longer see the empty cushion that waited there, and now, instead of the soft creak of old cushions as she flopped down, a harsh, grumbling growl rumbled against her ear.

A shiver shot down her spine.

Oh no.

Cheyenne’s eyes went wide.

She was sitting on someone.

Touchingsomeone, and she hadn’t had time to prepare.

She cringed. This was bad. So so bad. Like when she was five and her mother had forced her to sit on Santa’s lap at that horrible human mall for a picture bad. As she turned, she didn’t need to see who she’d sat on to know exactly who she’d find there. Now that she was aware of him, she could tell by his smell, the feel, the sheer solid size of where he was pressed against her. She’d memorized all the details. Intimately.

Cheyenne’s breath caught as her eyes locked with Silas’. “You’re not Santa.”

Silas growled, teeth bared. “No.”

“You’re in my seat.” She looked toward him again, before quickly glancing away. Eye contact wasn’t her forte. It always felt like she was staring someone down, instead of being polite like the other packmembers would say.

Andthissomeone was clearly not pleased with her.

She could tell that much.

“Yourseat?” Silas lifted a brow. His hands clenched the edge of the old armchair, so hard his knuckles had turned white, but she couldn’t tell whether he was angry or . . . she didn’t know.

He always seemed angry. Grumpy. To her at least.

“Yes,myseat.” She gestured to his lap. “I always sit here.” She glanced to where Maverick sat at his desk and smiled. “The packmaster even made one of the elite warriors move when I was late for a meeting once.”

It’d been a kind gesture. It’d made her feel understood. Seen. Autism and all.

Silas frowned, seemingly unconcerned with the chair’s ownership. “And the fact that I’m currently sitting here doesn’t matter to you?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Except that I’d like you to move please.”

Which wasn’tentirelytrue, since it washimshe was sitting on, but it would have been if it were anyone else. In truth, the longer she sat there with him, the more she got used to the idea, which was sometimes how things worked for her. She needed time to acclimate, to process, otherwise she got overstimulated.

She waited a beat, expecting him to slide out from beneath her, but to her surprise, he didn’t. “You’re not going to move?” She blinked at him. “I asked nicely.”

Silas’ dark eyes turned toward hers. This close, they were a warm, honey-brown that didn’t really fit the harsh lines of his face. The Adam’s Apple on his throat gave a sharp jerk.

“Christ,” he grumbled.

The tattoo on his temple twitched.

Abruptly, the packmaster cleared his throat.

Cheyenne glanced between the two men.

Was she missing something?

The packmaster lifted his fist to his lips and coughed, like maybe he was trying to smother a smirk? But she didn’t understand why.

There was nothing funny about Silas sitting in her chair.

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