Page 86 of The Weakest Wolf

“Just go. I don’t want you here.”

I say the words, and I mean them. But when Galen gently eases me to the bed, an ache that has nothing to do with an injury surprises me.

He crosses to the bedroom door and slips out, pulling it closed behind him.

That was what you wanted, so why aren’t you smiling?

I don’t have an answer, so I lay still, my eyes on the ceiling wondering what I’m feeling and why.

But then footsteps in the hallway distract me. And a scent I wasn’t expecting.

A moment later, Galen pushes the door open with a tray holding a familiar white bowl.

I frown at him. “What are you doing? I thought you were going.”

After kicking the door closed behind him, he returns to the bed and places the tray on the bedside table. “You’re not well enough to handle a long drive, and I’m not going anywhere without you.”

He wipes the blood from my hand and mouth with a warm, damp cloth before slowly sitting me up.

“I thought it wasn’t safe to stay.” Upright my head feels lighter, and I lift my hand, remembering just before I touch the ragged ends why I’m missing my hair. That’s when I notice the careful way Galen is observing me. “What?”

Shaking his head, he turns to grab the tray. “Nothing.”

“Not interested in fucking girls with short hair?” I ask, my voice bitter.

Galen places the tray on my lap and reaches for the spoon. It’s the same soup as before or a similar version with chicken and vegetables. “I have no problem fucking girls with short hair.”

He holds the spoon to my lips. I don’t open my mouth.

He doesn’t move. “But it’s not a woman’s hair—it’s notyourhair—that interests me. Open.”

My mind flashes back to the last time he told me that. From the heat in his eyes, I know he’s thinking of it, too.

He must’ve changed the sheets for the bedroom to no longer smell of sex, but it’s not that easy to forget all the things we did in this bed. “I thought a man wanted something to hold on to.”

His eyes never leave mine. “Some men think that way.”

“But not you?”

“Not me. Hair means nothing to me. It’s what’s in that heart and head I’m interested in.”

I snort. “Men just say that to get into a woman’s pants.”

He leans toward me. If my ribs weren’t so sore, I’d move away.

“I’ve been in yours, and if that were true, I would’ve said that before and not now.”

“Then it’s the guilt talking.”

“If it were,” he says, a heartbeat later, “then I would’ve taken you to the nearest hospital and walked away. Guilt isn’t the reason I’m saying these things, and it isn’t the reason I’m here.”

I try to think but my brain is slower than usual. “Then it’s—”

“I’m an alpha,” he interrupts.

Where is he going with this?

“And?”

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