“We’ve a guest room that you can use. Shower, have something to eat, and sleep. I’ll make sure the night shift doesn’t stop until you rise to replace them. I want to thank you for your hard work. You certainly went above and beyond the call of duty for our pack.”
“It’s nothing anyone else wouldn’t have done.”
Actually, she believed it was a lot, and anyone else would have thought twice before jumping into the fray such as Hawkes had.
“Sorry about how rudely I treated your dad. I wasn’t thinking. My dad grilled me on the correct protocol before I traveled here, but my mind was elsewhere. I haven’t had experience with a pack before.”
“Don’t let it bother you. Father is already over it, I’m sure.”
“Did the elixir help?”
“Not sure. Our doctor administered a dose not long after you saw him. If you pray, Monsieur Hawkes, please pray for my father.”
“I do pray to the universe, and I will put in a good word for your father.”
She unlocked the guest room door with a slash of her control card, which worked on all doors in the castle, and strode inside the dark bedroom lit by a ray of pale moonshine. Nearing fullness. Perhaps three more days? She’d lost track of the monthly cycle since her father had become ill. While normally instinctual about the moon phases, she was too discombobulated by the day’s events to summon clear thought.
Hawkes trudged inside, his boots forming small lakes in his wake. He pulled off his sweater and tossed it aside without care. The wolf slapped a palm to his bare abdomen and rubbed it, looking about the room with a long yawn.
He had a fine form. Not so bulky as the wolves in the pack, but certainly one of the biggest. Trystan was long, lean and hard with muscle that ridged his chest and stomach. Was it solid to the touch? Would her cool fingers warm against his pale skin?
Lexi stopped the divergent thoughts when she realized her tongue traced her upper lip. She forced herself to look away from the appealing sight. The wolf was still sleepwalking. He didn’t realize he was posing and flexing with every stretch he made.
Couldn’t.
“Why are you wearing sunglasses?” he asked.
“I always wear them. The light hurts my eyes,” she said, offering the classic lie.
“It’s dark in here.” He sat on the end of the bed, dressed with the thick goose-down coverlets Lexi loved to snuggle into, and lay back, stretching out his arms above the spray of wild, red hair that he wore as if a defiant flag.
She strolled into the bathroom and turned on the light. “The shower stream is fierce. For reasons beyond my knowledge we have excellent water pressure here in the boondocks. You’ll love it. There should be fresh towels and linens in the closet. I’ll see about finding you some clean clothes and have the maid drop them off.”
The werewolf didn’t answer so Lexi peeked inside the bathroom closet to be sure there was soap and towels. Everything looked presentable. She liked to run a tight ship, and was pleased the maid kept up the extra rooms. It was the least they could offer to the man who had selflessly aided their pack today.
Crossing the room, soft snores lured her to the bedside. Arms stretched above his head and feet still on the floor, the fascinating wolf had fallen asleep.
She leaned over him, inspecting his rising and falling chest. Her fingers played in the air but inches from his skin, unwilling and—wisely—not touching. He was a fine piece of work. A few freckles spotted his shoulders and along the side of his muscle-strapped torso. She started mapping them out, tapping the air with a finger and wondering if she could form the constellation Orion….
“What are you looking at, Princess?”
Startled upright, she took an abrupt step away from the bed. “It’s not Princess, it’s just Lexi. And I was …” Taking mental inventory of his steely abs and connecting the tantalizing dots. “Good night, Monsieur Hawkes.”
“It’s not monsieur, it’s just Trystan. Friends call me Tryst,” he said on a sleepy rasp. “And you’ll always be a princess to me, Lexi.” He yawned and turned his head to the side. “So pretty” came out on a murmur.
Lexi paused in the doorway and pressed her forehead to the door frame. He’d called her pretty. She had no earthly idea what to do with that compliment.
Trystan woke to the smell of bacon and maple syrup. Aware someone was in the room with him, he rolled over on the bed and realized he was wrapped like a burrito in the bedspread. Hell, he always conked out like a log after a hard day’s work and often fell asleep wherever he could manage. How’d he actually make it to a bed?
The image of a pretty werewolf with dark hair and mysterious sunglasses came to mind.
“Lexi,” he whispered. She’d made an offer to share the bed with him if he recalled correctly. Probably not a correct recall, and instead a dream. Heh.
“Hello?” He rolled out of the burrito wrap and sat up, shrugging fingers through his tangle of hair and shaking off the hangover of coming instantly upright and awake.
“Breakfast and a set of clothes for you, monsieur.” An elderly woman in casual dark slacks and sweater stood at the door. Must be the maid. He didn’t get the sense that she was wolf, though. “Principal Connor wishes to see you in an hour.”
“Thanks. Where’s his room again?”
“Down the hall at the end of the south wing. Take the stairs up to the tower.” She left, closing the door quietly.
The door wasn’t even closed before Tryst stood over the tray of breakfast, lured by his nose and the savory scent of heaven. He gobbled down a few slices of bacon and tilted back the first cup of coffee without taking a breath. The pancakes followed in huge bites. Man, he was starving. And they certainly knew how to feed a hungry wolf here. Six pancakes, eggs, bacon and sausage, camp fries, and granola with yogurt.
“I could get used to this.”
Living in Paris, in his bachelor pad that overlooked the Eiffel Tower, he normally didn’t cook for himself. Most nights he ate out, and kept a collection of take-out menus on his iPhone. And if on a date, that meant he couldn’t consume a huge meal, as usual, because he didn’t want to freak out his date by revealing his monstrous appetite. It took a lot to keep a grown wolf full. Mortal women ate so little and gave him condemning looks to see him gobble up his food. It was as if food of any sort disgusted them, and how could he possibly eat it?
He usually dated mortal women, but he’d yet to fall in love. And though he suspected the cards wouldn’t deal him love anytime soon, he was hopeful. Raising a family and starting his own pack was tops on his wish list.
He missed that he’d not been raised in a pack. While his father was half werewolf, he didn’t shift to werewolf form too often, because that side of him was vicious and violent. His werewolf was actually ruled by his vampire brain, and the vampire inside Rhys Hawkes was always pissed at the wolf for denying it the blood it desired.
So Rhys remained in vampire form most often because then his kinder, gentler werewolf mind ruled, and though Tryst had adjusted easily to his father’s mood swings—he’d grown up knowing nothing else—he quickly realized if he was going to learn what real, full-blooded werewolves were like, he’d have to find a few wolf friends. Which hadn’t been easy.
Unaligned wolves were not often welcomed to chum around with packs. But Tryst had managed to secure one close friend, an ice demon named Axel Fergusson, who had taught him things his father could have never thought to talk about. Axel knew about werewolves because he had once been one himself—actually, still was—before being cursed by Himself because he’d dated Bloody Mary, the chick who was known to be Himself’s girlfriend, so Axel had had it coming, Tryst figured.
Axel had been his lifeline. Especially when it came to dating advice. Never approach a pack female unless you have a death wish. Even if she gives you a wink. But if she’s alone, then go for it, and enjoy the ride while you could, which was never long. Pack females tended to surf the Parisian nightclubs for unaligned wolves as a vacation from their usual pack males. But they were never serious, just looking for some fun away from home. The different. The outsiders.
Ugh. Tryst hated that term.
Pouring his third cup of coffee, Tryst cautioned himself to slow down and enjoy the meal while he could. There was still another man missing, and if the crew that had worked through the early-morning hours had not found him, Tryst had work to do.
The maid had said the principal wanted to see him? Hmm, yes, he should go and apologize for his brisk treatment of him yesterday. At the very least, he should have bowed before the elder wolf. Rhys would not be happy to learn about his faux pas.
Tryst finished the last sausage link and stood back from the clean plate. A shower and a quick shave were in order. He had a long day ahead of him. Fingers crossed, that day would involve meeting up with the pretty princess who had been staring at his half-naked body last night.
“She wants me,” he said. “Score!”
He tossed an imaginary basketball and landed the trick hoop shot because he was so good, and yes, the woman wanted him.
Now he just had to sniff out any competition from the males in the pack, and then approach the target with confidence yet caution.
Alexis knocked on the guest room door. It was seven in the morning, which wasn’t early by any means, but she didn’t hear a sound on the other side of the door. Was the wolf still sleeping? He deserved the rest. The night team had not found the remaining man, so she entirely expected Hawkes would be out poking about in the snow as soon as the sun blinked across his eyelids. He’d bring up a dead man, surely, but his dedication heartened her.
She was fascinated by those with an ability to fit into any scenario or surrounding effortlessly, such as Hawkes had seemed to do here at Wulfsiege. Herself, she was never quite sure how to become a part of something even as innocuous as a conversation. It wasn’t shyness, but a touch of introversion. Okay, a lot of introversion. Her sister had gotten their father’s extroverted gene. And the pretty gene. And the popularity gene.
“Get over it,” she muttered with a roll of her eyes. Why was she feeling so sorry for herself suddenly? “This is not you.”
It was exhaustion—that was all she could summon as an excuse.
