Page 25 of Strelitzias in Spring

I roll my eyes and do everything I can to keep the annoyance from my voice. “I’m completely covered, and no one will be out there. It’s too early for most people to come back from a party and too late for those who stayed in to be out.”

“Pain in my ass,” he grumbles. Reaching for the door handle, Wolf stills before turning his head, giving me his disgustingly handsome profile. “Make sure you keep all your wounds clean and wear loose, baggy clothing for at least a week or until the infection clears up on your back. If the infection doesn’t go away in a day or so on its own, or if you develop a fever, you need to go to the urgent care or your primary care physician for an antibiotic, probably penicillin. As soon as you’re all cleared up, give the shop a call, and Aubrey will schedule you with one of my artists for a consultation for a cover-up. There’s no fucking way you’re walking around with that shit for the rest of your life.”

“You won’t do the piece?” I ask, surprised that he mentioned another artist.

He shakes his head once. “I have too many clients and too long of a waitlist to add a cover-up into the mix right now. It takes planning, color theory, and a shit-ton of work to make sure the original is completely camouflaged or incorporated into the new piece.”

“Oh. Right, of course.”

“Don’t worry, all of my artists are highly skilled and can out-tattoo any other shop in the tri-state area. And that’s not me being cocky; most, if not all, my artists have won or placed in national competitions and are recognized as some of the best in their respective styles. I think you’ll like Sloan—she does both watercolors and photorealism and could make a real nice piece for you.”

“What’s your specialty?”

“Fine line and Japanese. Listen, I need to go. Don’t forget what I told you, and make sure you take care of your bruises, too. Rub some butter on your jaw before you go to bed; it should help to reduce the swelling and inflammation.”

“I will.”

“And lock up behind me. So help me God, do not leave this door open at night.”

“I will,” I repeat, transferring both edges of the blanket to one hand.

“And—”

I cut Wolf off, placing my free hand on his forearm. Rising on my toes, I place a delicate, chaste kiss on the underside of Wolf’s jaw, the highest point I’m able to reach due to our size difference. He sucks in a breath as though shocked by my actions. “Thank you, Wolf. For picking me up tonight, making sure I was safe, and taking care of me afterward. I know you didn’t have to and only did it as a favor to Celeste, but thank you anyway.”

Releasing a long exhale, Wolf turns his head and unlatches the door, throwing it open before tossing words over his shoulder. “Stop fucking kissing me, princess. And lock the goddamn door.”

He slams the door behind him, and I quickly turn the lock and the deadbolt, severing our connection. My mind nags at me to look through the peephole, and I raise my eye to watch the hallway. Wolf didn’t storm away, as I expected, but instead, he’s standing in front of my door, hanging his head and looking like a defeated man. I continue to observe him as he runs a hand over his buzzed head and scowls. Though I can’t hear him, his mouth moves, and I can make out the words departing his lips, “Fucking hell, princess.”

I watch as his form disappears through the peephole, holding my breath until I’m sure he’s out of the hallway and through the stairwell door. Releasing it slowly, I drop my head to my door and laugh, unable to contain my absolute confusion about how my night ended with me here: bruised, bloody, and drained. I’m grateful, annoyed, and unfairly turned on by Wolf’s appearance tonight; I shudder to think of what could have happened if I needed to walk through that party alone after hiding in the bathroom.

Dropping my shoulders, I drop my grip on the blanket and let it fall until it’s nothing more than a pool of fabric at my feet. Walking across the room, I turn off the lights and make my way to the hall bathroom Wolf used earlier.

His smell assaults me as soon as I step through the door and I inhale deeply, savoring the scent that envelops me.

“God, he smells like a freaking forest.” I sigh into the room. Grabbing the glass door of the shower, I pry it open and switch the water to hot. Even though I showered less than an hour ago in my primary bathroom, and had Wolf rubbing ointment on my back, I feel sticky and needy. I reason that I’ll reapply whatever Wolf did, even if I have to contort my body to do so. While the water runs, I check on the vanity cabinet and bite my lip at the color-coded rows. Wolf lined up each product in vertical lines according to color and height order, giving me a perfect view of every item in my cabinet.

Steam starts to fill the bathroom and I yank the shower door open, stepping into the stall carefully before closing the door. Somehow, Wolf’s scent is magnified by the scalding water, so strong that it feels like he’s in this tiny bathroom with me. Closing my eyes, I let myself imagine a world where Wolf doesn’t view me as helpless and impulsive, but beautiful and desirable. Trailing my hands up my body, I trace the droplets of water until my fingers meet my nipples, pulling at them until they stand erect and wanting. I don’t swallow the moan that builds in my throat, sharing it with the chipped black tile.

In my mind, it’s not my slim fingers on my chest, but Wolf’s thick, scarred hands pulling at my nipples until they’re red and puffy. Dragging one hand down my body, I don’t stop until my fingers meet my clit, strumming against it in hard, sure strokes. The dual stimulation causes my knees to buckle as an orgasm whips through me with little warning.

“Shit,” I gasp, moving one hand to brace myself against the wall. Wolf’s face still clouds my vision, and his smell still consumes me as I suck in a lungful of air.

I allow myself a few moments to feel the aftershock of my climax and the water beating my back before I push myself up, finish my shower, and leave all remnants of the night behind.

13

Serena

“What do you mean you’re selling the house?” I yell into my phone. “You told me that you could buy Dad out if you needed to.”

“Lower your voice,Muñeca; getting loud with me will not change my decision.” My mom pauses, taking a breath so deep that I can hear it through the phone. “We came to this house to heal—you, me, and your grandmother—and it gave us beautiful years and memories that we can cherish. But it’s just a house, Serena, and no matter what it looks like to you, this house will always have a part of your father connected to it. When I couldn’t get a mortgage, I needed your father to sign as the primary lender; he has held that over my head for the last eleven years. Even if he agreed to refinancing—which he won’t—the walls of the place would still be haunted by his presence. We need a fresh start, one where he can’t hold the literal roof over our heads.

“I’m done, Serena. I cannot communicate with him anymore, not after he verbally and emotionally abused you for making a mistake that most young people make: trusting someone who was not worthy.Youare his daughter, not Marina. While you may have made a poor decision because that boy wasn’t good toyou, your father has no right to act as though you killed someone or broke a family apart. I will not condone his behavior toward you, and if that means selling this house, good. I don’t want it anymore. I’ve told you we have the money for a fresh start without your father’s influence.”

Tears splash on the counter, and I can’t hold back the choking sobs that overtake me. “B-but it’s our home, Mamá.”

“No, it’s a house, Serena. Memories transfer; they’re not contained in wood or brick and mortar. I know you love this house, but it’s time.This house served its purpose and will be good to the next family.”

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