Page 56 of The Weakest Wolf

Her mouth snaps shut. When her eyes narrow, I drop her arm. “Dragging it is.”

She backs up a step. “I’ll walk,” she says in a rush.

I nod. “Good choice.”

After tossing the sponge into the bucket, she stalks toward the door.

As I lead the way back to the farmhouse, I ask myself what the fuck I’m doing bringing Sierra Stone under the same roof, knowing what my wolf wants me to do to her.

13

SIERRA

Anight in a soft bed where there was little chance any of the pack would kick my door down and drag me out meant I should’ve slept like a baby, especially with my broken ribs having finally healed.

I didn’t.

Not even close.

I had no dreams or nightmares. What I had was a constant awareness of who was sleeping in the room next door.

All night.

So I drag my barely rested body from the bed and find comfort in something I have no love for, but which always helps to clear my mind.

I clean.

Everything.

Except for a certain room, which contains a certain alpha who nearly drove me to climax with his fingers in under a minute.

Nothing escapes my attention. I hit every bedroom, the bathroom, the dining room, lounge, the hallway, and the kitchen—twice—when I run out of places to clean.

I even climb on a chair and dust the ugly brown lampshades some old alpha must’ve bought back in the seventies.

Or maybe it’s just the dust from the seventies.

Suddenly it’s no longer dark out. Bright early morning sun streams from the spotless windows, and that’s when I hear it. Water.

The shower.

Galen is in the shower. Which means he’s naked.

I stop cleaning and angle my head toward his bedroom as I try not to envision him standing under a hot, steamy spray.

Two seconds later and the thought of him doing just that takes shape.

In my mind, he has his eyes closed with one strong hand braced against the shower wall. His head is slightly lowered and water flattens his dark hair against the back of his neck.

After a minute, he lifts his head and reaches for the washcloth and soap. He takes his time soaping the cloth as the steamy water swirls around him like a thick fog. The muscles in his arms bunch and flex as he does it.

I don’t know why, but they just do.

My hands tighten around the wood on my duster.

He starts with his left arm before switching the cloth to his left hand so he can lather up his right arm too. Then he drags the cloth over his chest before he angles down. And down. And down.

Would he think of Chloe, or would he be thinking of how he pressed me against his bedroom door as he stroked the cloth over his body?

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