Page 77 of Ravaged Wolf
“Is there an occasion?”
“Maybe.” I smile at him. I aim forcome hither, but he flusters me when he watches me like this, with his eyes so stormy, so it ends up lessdo me, and moreget worried.
His forehead creases. “Did I forget something?” I can see him searching his memory, probably to reassure himself that it’s not my birthday.
“No. I just wanted to do something nice.”
“It looks great. Is that cake?”
“Chocolate.”
He smiles, and the worry’s gone. His face lights up with pure delight.
My belly warms. He’s so easy to make happy. All he wants is peace and little pleasures.
Like me.
And isn’t it strange that I didn’t know that’s what I was like until I got here, with him? I was so busy getting along, and then getting through, that I didn’t know who I was.
I know now, and it feels light. Like bubbles.
“Grab the plates?” I nod at the aluminum pie plates I snagged from the den.
He brings them over and holds them as I serve up the steaks and fish the potatoes out of the coals with a stick, picking them up with a man’s leather glove as an oven mitt. Everything is makeshift at Old Den. I love it. There are no “good” dishes or “company” towels that you use afraid that you’ll mess them up.
We sit beside each other on the log and eat, our thighs touching and elbows bumping when we take a bite at the same time. The fuller our bellies get, the more our spines relax and our shoulders curve.
“What did you put on this steak?” Trevor groans. “I could eat two more. Right now.”
“You can’t possibly eat two more. You’d have no room for cake.”
“Don’t you worry about my dessert stomach. It’ll be fine.”
“You’ve got a second stomach? Like a cow?”
“I do. I’m actually cow on my dad’s side.” His eyes sparkle. “Moo,” he says, deadpan. “See?”
“Kind of messed up to be eating steak then, eh? What would your grandparents think?”
“That I had scaled the top of the predator-prey pyramid.” He flexes his bicep while chewing his last piece of steak. I scrape half of my remaining bites onto his plate. “Hey,” he says. “I share with you. Not the other way.”
“We share with each other.”
He looks mutinous for a moment, but then he gobbles down the rest of the steak and cuts the cake. It’s small, meant for two. When Avalon and I baked it earlier, we separated the mix into two pans so she could have one to share with her family.
Trevor cuts himself a sliver and slides the rest onto my plate.
“Hey,” I protest.
“We share,” he says, dropping a kiss on my nose. He forks his slice into his mouth in two bites and stares wistfully at mine.
I take a piece and then hold up another on my fork forhim. He doesn’t hesitate. I feed him the rest—one bite for me, one for him. At the end, he actually ended up with more than half, considering his first slice, but I’m not mad. My happy stomach swirls with anticipation.
I’m excited at the idea of more kissing, and whatever might come after, but I’m also high on the fact thatI’mdoing this. I’m seducing my mate—docile, compliant, broken, tragic Izzy Owens—who turned out to be capable, brave, and resilient. And most of it is because of me, but some of it is because of him. Because he’s kind and brave and resilient, too.
After he’s had the chance to clean every smudge of icing off the plate with his finger, I put my plan in action, standing to gather our dishes and salvage what I can from the aluminum foil I used for the potatoes. There’s nothing left to compost.
Trevor watches me lazily, relaxing on the log, his lips curved. He loves to watch me do basically anything. If he were anyone else, it’d make me uncomfortable, but his eyes on me make me squirm in a good way. Maybe because they’re that pale blue-gray, the affection shines in them so clearly.
