Page 4 of Pack Kasen: Part 2

I eye him with concern and pity. “Maybe try going back to proper medication. I don’t think the herbal remedies are helping.”

They’re certainly making me want to always keep five feet between us.

“Maybe you’re right.” He roots around in his pocket for another tissue. “I can't wait for spring to be over. There’s no pollen in summer. I can breathe in summer.”

I turn to leave. “Well, I better get back to packing.”

He takes a step forward, and I smother the need to sneeze. “I, uh, wanted to ask you something else.”

I turn back, curious. “Yeah?”

He looks down, cheeks pink as he shuffles from foot to foot. “Uh, maybe you wanted to get coffee sometime.”

I breathe out a sigh. “I can’t.”

And not only because he’s only ever been a friend, and I have no interest in having a relationship with anyone. Someone on campus has killed all the guys I’ve shown even the slightest bit of interest in, and that killer is still out there.

The Wolf King accused me of being an out-of-control feral killing students. But it wasn’t me. Whoever it was killed Doug, my ex-boyfriend, a guy I’d loved, and who didn’t deserve to be dragged into a bush and have his throat ripped out.

Iwillfind that killer.

“With my new job and the move, it’s not a good time. But thanks,” I add softly.

“We can still be friends?” he says, taking it better than I thought he would.

“Sure. Are you going to Doug’s wake in a couple of days?” I wish I could skip it, but it’s a last chance to say a final goodbye to Doug, his friends, and his family. I can’t miss that.

He nods. “I’ll be there. You?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

2

KAT

Releasing a sigh of frustration, I push open my front door and step into my open concept apartment. My nose warns me I’m not alone.

The scent of wild forest and dewy snowdrops in the depths of winter tells me exactly who it is.

I could turn around, get back in the elevator, and ride it down again, but I’m tired. This is my apartment, and I refuse to be chased out of it.

The Wolf King sprawls in the middle of my bed, flipping through a book, so relaxed, it’s as if this is his apartment, not mine. He’s wearing another black band T-shirt and black jeans. His blond hair falls loose around his face, resembling a rock-loving Viking.

“What are you doing?” I demand.

He flips a page. “Reading your diary.”

“I don’t have a diary.” I hold my door open. “Now get out.”

“I’m your mate, Kat.”

“What you are doing,” I bite out, “is making a mess of my sheets.”

They’re brand new. I fought to get them on my mattress, and I was counting down the seconds to crawling into bed after a far too exhausting evening at Doug’s wake, where I tried desperately not to cry when Doug’s parents hugged me and said how much he had cared about me.

“They’re okay. My sheets are softer. They’re organic cotton.”

As if I give a damn about his organic cotton sheets.

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