He heaves a sigh. “Stay here,” he orders. Then he disappears into the house. There’s a scraping sound. He emerges a few seconds later with a wooden rocking chair. It’s beautiful, polished and smooth in the way only really antique furniture gets.
“Sit,” he says.
I’m tired of sitting, but he looks at his wits’ end, and I’m almost beyond exhausted now. I’m hungry. Fuzziness is descending on my mind like drifts of fluffy snow.
I hear Killian call someone on his phone, and then it’s quiet for a while. I rock with my good leg and drift off. The sun sinks, and the foothills turn black against the pinkish orange horizon. Venus appears, super bright and all alone.
Thumps and thuds from the cabin wake me occasionally, but then I drift back off. Strange, almost waking dreams pass vaguely through my consciousness. A serious boy with Killian’s pale blue eyes, braiding my hair. Holding a cup of tea to my lips.
After what feels like a long time, but by the glow of the horizon, can only have been a half hour or so, the hum of a vacuum rouses me. I go peek inside.
Killian’s cleaning. He has the new rug rolled up, and he’s thrown all the windows open. Down the hallway, I can see the new sofa, armchair, and ottoman stacked by the back door. A mattress is leaning against them.
He has his shirt off. His chest, the slabs of his pecs, and the ridges of his abs are slick with sweat. The V that arrows down into his shorts. He moves so efficiently. So competently. He’s not pissed. I wouldn’t blame him if he was. I hate cleaning. But he’s just—intent. And thorough.
Cheryl’s scent has faded, replaced by lemon and pine.
And then a box truck comes down the path and pulls around to the back of the house.
When they cut the engine, Killian hollers, “Don’t touch a damn thing. I’ll get it.”
I watch through the window as Killian hauls everything out, all by himself, and carries in a new leather sofa—black this time—and a new mattress covered in plastic.
At some point, whoever’s making the delivery must step too close to the cabin because Killian’s wolf snarls, and a male stammers, “Sorry, Alpha.”
It’s well past dinner time now. I’m starving, but I want sleep more than food. This day has been eternal. If he lets me, I’ll pass out on the new sofa.
Killian disappears into the bedroom, and then, after what feels like forever, he comes out to the porch. I’m back in the rocking chair, dozing. He clears his throat, and I blink open my eyes.
He stands in the doorway, arms crossed. His chest is still bare. It’s perfect. Sculpted and strong. I want to lay my cheek against it and feel it rise and fall with his breath. The impulse yanks at something inside me. Synchronizes.
I smile drowsily. I don’t have it in me to be prickly at the moment. It’s too late, and I’m too damn tired.
“Beautiful mate,” he says, gruff and grumbly.
“Not your mate,” I murmur.
And there’s a tug inside me. Small and sharp. Enough to send my eyes flying wide open. It wasn’t my wolf. It came from outside of us. It came from him.
Killian grins. “Come on, mate. I’ve prepared your den for you. It should smell like nothing but Pine Sol and sweat.”
He turns, expecting me to follow.
I rock the chair to the count of ten—because there isn’t an almost nonexistent tether pulling me after him. I could walk away. There’s no bond. Nothing that counts. I’m not gonna end up desperate and hurting again.
Once I’ve calmed the panic, I go to him. The walk home, all the way up the hill, is too far. And I kind of want to see the alpha’s bedroom.
He leads me down the short hall to the room at the end. It definitely belongs to Killian. There are no paintings on the wall. There’s a utility bench and a rack of weights. A metal folding chair with a towel hung over the back. A plain chest of drawers, nothing on top. And a huge bed with a simple wrought iron frame.
The bed is made, covered in a thick Amish quilt. The room smells entirely of him. He didn’t lie. His sweaty musk masks any other lingering scent.
I’m so sleepy, I let him guide me to sit at the foot of the bed. He unzips the hoodie and slides it from my shoulders, his expression solemn.
Lazy swoops swirl in my belly, but I’m so tired. While he’s tossing the sweatshirt in a hamper, I unlace my boots, kick them off, and crawl under the covers. The pillows are firm and cool. The sheets are soft.
It’ll do.
I yawn so wide my jaw pops.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “Just let me sleep a little. Then I’ll go.”