Scarred Wolf by Charlene Hartnady

11

Everleigh

Jaxon’s eyesare as wide as I imagine my own to be as I stare at him. Stare? Hell, I’m gaping. My mouth opens and closes like a goldfish. I struggle to identify the emotions clouding his features. Shock, horror, rage? Whatever it is, he shuts down before I can get a word in, and then he’s on his feet and spinning away.

What on earth is going on?

“I’m so sorry,” I say, for what feels like the hundredth time. “I never meant to barge in on you like that. And the wineglass…I just…” I trail off. I feel like a complete idiot. How could I have just walked into the bathroom? What the hell? I know he’s hot and all but to then stand there staring… Oh, my god! Although there was a lot to stare at. A whole hell of a lot. Muscles upon muscles, and then his cock…holy shit. Long and thick. It looked like things were happening down there, because long and thick became longer and thicker, until I could hardly breathe. Looking away was almost an impossibility. So, I just stood there staring like an idiot and for altogether too long. He probably thinks I’ve never seen anyone naked before. I wouldn’t blame him if he did.

Why did he even suggest that we have a drink after that? My instincts had screamed out a warning. Somehow, I’m sensing…danger around him, but that can’t be right. He works in security. And yet despite it all, I can’t resist this strange pull. It seems I might be attracted to a jerk who gives off dangerous vibes. A red flag if I ever saw one. Then, after I cut my hand, he turned into a thoughtful and caring guy. Jaxon is giving me whiplash. I can’t read him.

He’s on the other side of the living room, his back to me as I try again. “I had a horrible day at the nursing home. One of the old folks…” I swallow hard, trying to find my voice. I’m pretty sure that half the reason he’s rattling me so hard is that I’m not in a great emotional space. “One of my patients…” I try again. Dammit, why won’t the words come out? He must think I’m making this up.

I’m not, though, and I shudder as I remember it all. I’ve worked at the home for nearly five years, yet each time this happens it rocks me to my core. Poor Mr. Harding, he’s just the sweetest— was just the sweetest man. I took him out to feed the birds. He loved to feed the birds. He’d told me countless times how his wife had adored doves. They’d been married sixty years and survived a war together. He’d once described how she’d given birth to their son during an air-raid, with ceiling plaster raining down on her while he held her hand. Now she was gone, and so was their son and it was just poor Mr. Harding and the birds left. I’m fighting back tears as I think about it. He’d been sitting in the sunshine when I went back for him before lunch, his lips still curved up in a smile. But his frail old hands were cool when I touched them, despite the warmth of the sun.

“One of my patients passed away today,” I finally whisper, the words barely carrying the weight of all the feelings behind them. Even forty-five minutes on the treadmill hasn’t settled my fragile state of mind. I’d been an emotional wreck when I got home. That’s why I hadn’t been thinking clearly. It couldn’t be helped. Shit happens, as the saying goes.

Jaxon still has his back to me; I can sense him bristling with what looks like fury. Why would he be this angry over a broken glass? I was the one who cut myself, not him. “It’s just that—”

I see him shake his head as I try to explain some more. As if he doesn’t give a damn.

Of course he doesn’t give a damn. He’s a dick!

He turns to look at me at last, his eyes like slate; flat and hard. “You’d better get washed up,” he says, and I look down to see there’s blood streaked over the pastel pink of my sweatshirt. I shoot a look at my hand and pinch my lips together in confusion. There’s a raised pink line on my palm, as if I’ve had a rough scratch, but nothing to warrant the amount of blood I’d seen earlier. Was it my imagination? God knows that’s been running wild. That moment when he’d been holding my hand, something had come over me. The sight of my blood on his lips should have been gross to me, and yet it had stirred something so primal and primitive. For a moment, I’d imagined shoving him to the floor and—

Not going there!

He’s staring at me, eyes narrowed. His stare makes me feel like something he scraped off the bottom of his shoe. I have an overwhelming need to set things straight. He can’t treat me like this. He is in my apartment.

“I’m sorry about earlier…in the bathroom,” I say firmly, pleased that my voice is so crisp and clear. “I was distracted, and I went in to collect—” I stop there. He doesn’t need to know. “I realize it was an intrusion, but I’m still adjusting to our new living arrangement. I assure you that it won’t happen again.” There. I said it. Just like a grown-up would.

His eyes are still narrowed, and he’s searching my face. Probably looking for some hint of an ulterior motive. Like I deliberately ran in there to get an eyeful of his “junk.” Honestly, I’d completely forgotten he might be in there. I carefully school my expression, remaining impassive.

“Good,” he says eventually. “Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Asshole!

“You can be sure of it,” I reply coolly. He nods curtly, then turns and stalks out of the room. It’s only when I hear his door slam shut that I release the breath I’ve been holding and feel myself sagging into the plush leather of my sofa.

I can’t remember when last I felt so unsettled. It’s more than just the idea of having a stranger in my house. There’s something about this stranger. And, let’s face it, he’s no longer a stranger. I’ve seen every inch of him. Every hard, throbbing inch—

I want to groan out loud. The picture of all that magnificent maleness feels like it’s been burned into my brain.

All I can say is that it’s clearly been too long since I got laid. I rub my eyes, willing his image away, but it’s stuck there. Firmly stuck.

Arghhhh!

I reach for my phone and hit Diana’s number on speed-dial. She’ll know how to help – she always has the best advice. And I need to get out of here.

Before I do something I’ll regret. Like throw myself at him and end up bruised on the floor instead of in his bed. No dalliances – who even uses a word like that? – for me, thanks! Not when it comes to that asshat.