Page 18 of Lost Touch

I tucked my head against his shoulder, petted his chest, and smiled into his T-shirt as he relaxed under my fingers.

And I slid back into sleep between one deep, no-longer-gasping breath and the next, with Drew’s warmth—not to mention his claws and murderous intent—between me and the world.

After that night he didn’t even bother going to bed in the guest room he’d repurposed as his, simply doing his thing in the bathroom across the hall, leaving the en suite for me like the gentleman he was, and then coming into the bedroom and climbing into bed fifteen or twenty minutes after I’d turned out the light.

On the second night he slept in the bed with me, he appeared with a fourth pillow, grinning at me toothily as he arranged it. I took that as a sign not to try to go for three out of four.

So at night we got along fine.

But during the day he avoided me, grunted in response to questions, and went out for long runs in the woods, coming back wild-eyed and silent, prowling through the house as if he’d shaken off the fur but not whatever instincts drove him in his other form.

At what had to have been monstrous expense, Drew ordered our groceries in, and he bothered to talk to me for the ten minutes it took to pick out some clothes that would presumably fit me to be delivered as well.

And to be fair, he’d ordered a whole freezer full of smooth ice cream flavors, a case of chocolate protein drinks, and every type of fruit and vegetable that could be sliced into simple, crunchy pieces and eaten raw that he could think of. In fact, the amount of thought he’d put into finding foods that would nourish me and also not gross me out left me all warm and fuzzy inside, and strongly inclined me to forgive nearly anything.

But as the days turned into a week, and then into almost two weeks, he’d become so closed-off and edgy that I’d started walking on eggshells around him. Not that I thought he’d really snap and take it out on me, whatever was eating at him.

Of course he wouldn’t. I told myself that more than once, and I mostly believed it.

But that kind of tension in the air prevented me from ever relaxing.

Finally, in self-defense, I did what I would’ve done in the first place if I’d had a brain: I closed out the tabs I’d had open on the laptop full of news articles about world events I’d missed or forgotten, movies that I might or might not have seen, and other nonsense I didn’t really care about, and started researching werewolves.

First I read through all the basic info on relatively anodyne encyclopedia sites, but those didn’t have much I didn’t already know. Along with all other shifter types, werewolves healed quickly, had more strength and stamina than humans, and had senses that combined the best of animal advantages (better scent and hearing) with the best of what humans had to offer (full-color vision). They could full-shift or half-shift, depending on what worked best for the circumstances, and while the full moon had some effects on their physiology, they weren’t forced to shift or anything like that.

Actually, I skimmed the part about moon phases as they interacted with werewolf body chemistry, because it seemed like a bunch of hand-wavy hocus-pocus that boiled down to “werewolves are magic and we don’t really understand that, so go find a shaman and get off the internet.”

The pages dedicated to alphas specifically told me that most alphas were male, hinted at “differences in sexual function,” which stopped me for a minute but didn’t actually tell me anything, and made it clear that alphas were even stronger, faster, and more indestructible than your average shifter—all things I already knew from seeing Drew and the other alpha in action when they rescued me.

None of it really contained what I wanted. Unfortunately, Googling “why does my alpha werewolf roommate act like a jerk all day” didn’t give me anything. What a shock.

Which left me with only one option, possibly the one I should’ve gone for first: talking to him. You know. Like a grown-up.

I waited until dinner time, when I thought I had the best chance of getting him to sit down and have a conversation. He’d been even grumpier that afternoon, stomping around and slamming the fridge door over and over while he made sandwiches for lunch, growling something incoherent at me when I offered to do it instead, and then slouching off to his office again.

He hadn’t even eaten half his sandwich. If I’d needed more convincing that something was seriously wrong with him, that would’ve done it. Drew could always eat—in quantities that had alarmed me at first until I got used to his metabolism.

By the time he emerged, presumably lured by the smell of the tomato soup and grilled cheese I’d made, I’d worked myself up into a state of nerves that had me shaking enough, as I served the soup, to slop some over the side of the bowl and onto the counter.

“I’ll do that,” Drew growled, practically shoving me out of the way. Without enough force to hurt me, but still.

And that was the last freaking straw.

“What the hell?” I demanded, fists on my hips, glaring up at him. “What the hell is the matter with you? I don’t know what your—”

Drew whirled on me, ladle brandished in his hand, his knuckles white. I fell back a step, the words dying on my lips and my heart rate spiking: he had his fangs down, teeth bared, and his eyes glowed full gold the way they had in my cell.

“There’s nothing fucking wrong with me!” he shouted, his voice a feral, wild snarl. “Leave me the fuck alone!”

I froze like a rabbit staring down a starving wolf. Oh, God. I’d misjudged. I’d let my stupid, naïve trust in him lull me into a false sense of security. Everything in the kitchen wobbled, going into high relief: the yellowish glare of the light over the sink, the gleam of the countertop, Drew’s glowing eyes. The air vibrated around me, it felt like, as my body went into some kind of terror-fueled overdrive.

And then the blind panic hit and I stumbled, trying to run, unable to turn my back on him, the nape of my neck tingling and throbbing with the need toget away.

I crashed into the fridge, the cereal boxes on top of it flopping down and whacking me in the head, everything clattering, and I flailed the other direction and lurched into the laundry room, scrabbling frantically at the door.

Locked, fuck, locked, and Drew’s footsteps thumped behind me.

His hand landed on my shoulder, his grip hard and punishing and inescapable.

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