Page 7 of Ravaged Wolf
I look behind me at the empty apartment and the hallway to my bedroom. I do want an ice-cold shower. Desperately. I want to crawl naked in between cold cotton sheets with a fan blowing at high speed on my face. I want to be alone.
But I also don’t.
My parents would flip if I left the apartment. I can hear my dad in my head.Thoughtless. Ungrateful. Stupid.
I can hear my mom, too.How could you? What were you thinking?
I’m supposed to do what I’m told, and if I do, then everything will be okay. But I always do what I’m asked, and nothing is ever okay. Of course, that’s my fault because I never do things well enough.
A wild thought springs up from the fog in my brain.
If nothing’s going to be okay anyway, why not do what I want?
My feet take the idea as permission, and without my say so, I’m stepping through the doorway, down the corridor, and past the elevators. The hallway stinks like garbage, I assume from unmated males who’ve recently passed by, but there’s another scent, too, a faint trail, savory and warm and mouth-watering. As soon as my wolf catches it, she comes alive with anticipation.
Mate.
I follow my nose to the stairwell that no one uses except for fire drills. The space is glaringly well lit, and it’s hard to track the scent of gravy over the stink of rubber stair treads and pine cleaner, but I know where I’m heading. Every flight I get closer to the fifth floor, the less awful I feel.
I’m not going to knock on Trevor’s door or anything. We don’t actually know each other. What would I even say?
I’m just going to get close to the smell and take a break. Collect myself. The stairwell isn’t as stuffy as the apartment. I’m still warm, but the heat doesn’t have the asphyxiating, in-your-face feel of getting into a hot car at three o’clock in the afternoon in the middle of August.
By the sixth-floor landing, I’m exhausted. I sink down to my butt, wrap my fingers around the balusters, and rest mycheek on the cool metal. It feels so good. My wolf is still on her feet, alert, fur bristling with excitement.
She’s ready. She wants to come out, but she’s not pushing. She seems content to wait for now. I kind of get it. That’s how I used to feel on the morning of my birthday. I knew I had presents and cake coming, and hours beside the lake or on our boat when Mom and Dad would be all smiles for company. I would stay in bed as long as I could, luxuriating in that feeling of being on the verge of a wonderful day.
This isn’t wonderful, though, is it?
If my mating Trevor causes Dad to lose out on the promotion, it’ll be hell on earth. He’ll make sure of it. Would he take it out on Trevor?
Dad’s always talking about the cocky young pups in the office who try to show him up even though they don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground. He loves forcing them into confrontations where his wolf can make them show neck. I bet he’d do the same to Trevor. Of course, he would.
My thumb sneaks into my mouth, and I suck on the tip. Mom would be livid if she saw me. She thinks she broke me of the habit years ago, but at night in bed or when I’m alone, I still do it.
What am I going to do about Trevor?
Can I hold out for two weeks?
If I do, is Trevor going to want me afterward? Do I want him to want me?
Do I want to be mated for real? And what is Trevor even like?
He’s cute. He doesn’t seem aggressive.
He wouldn’t have a chance standing up to Dad.
Without warning, hinges creak below. I startle, snatch my thumb out of my mouth, and shove both hands into my lap. The fire door opens, slowly, as if the person behind itwants to give fair warning, and when I’m about to jump out of my skin from the suspense, Trevor walks through.
He gazes up the stairs, solemn and unsurprised, like he expects to see me sitting here. My stomach leaps. He eases the door closed behind him.
Did he smell me here? What do I smell like? I hopeIdon’t smell like gravy.
“Hi,” he says softly and stays where he is with his back to the door. He’s wearing cargo pants and a fitted gray T-shirt. His thigh muscles stretch the pants, and his biceps and pecs stretch his cotton T-shirt. Something deep in my lower belly flips like a fish.
“Hi.” I straighten up, drawing my heels up to prop them on the edge of the landing and curling my arms around my knees.
“Can I come up?” he asks.
