Tug. This one is impatient. A little worried.
I run my fingers through my hair. I’d feel better with it braided, but I have no idea where my hair band went.
I make my way toward the kitchen, noticing all the things I didn’t last night. Killian doesn’t have anything hanging on his walls.
Correction. In the main room, the interior wall is nothing but mounted weapons. Bows. Spears. Swords. It’s not decorative; it’s utilitarian. There’s also fishing rods, nets, and traps hanging from hooks screwed into the drywall.
There aren’t pillows on the sofa or a coffee table. Several metal folding chairs are stacked in a corner. I guess for company?
Next to the sofa, where you’d expect there to be an end table with a lamp, there’s a rack of weights, bigger than the one in his bedroom.
Overall, it doesn’t really feel like a den. It feels like storage.
The kitchen is towards the back of the cabin. I vaguely remember standing there last night, wishing a meal would fix itself. I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungry.
I still don’t rush through the door.
Tug.
I let the bond go as I step through the door. Killian’s muscular back is towards me. He’s messing with something on the counter.
He’s wearing gray sweatpants low on his hips, and there’s a faint shadow where the waistline doesn’t quite come up past the cleft of his ass. It’s a nicely sculpted ass. I drop my gaze. He’s barefoot. So am I.
My toes curl. I’m a mess of nerves, all the muzzy tranquility I felt in my nest gone. I’m in the alpha’s kitchen, and last night, I let him touch my pussy. I demanded that he touch my pussy.
I sink into a seat at the table. Yeah, here’s the embarrassment. It’s not enough to mess with my appetite, but my face is on fire. I fuss with my hair so it covers my cheeks, and I examine the salt and pepper shakers with a great deal of interest.
“Here.” A plate heaped with food slides under my nose, followed by a fork and knife. Scrambled eggs. Steak. Ham. He drops a second plate in front of his chair.
He stalks to the refrigerator and returns with a plastic carton of Greek yogurt.
“Shit.” He goes to a drawer and comes back with a spoon, and then he glares at the spread. “Oh, yeah. Orange juice.”
He grabs two cups and the OJ, and then he stands over the table, hands on hips. Is he going to watch me eat?
I’m starving. If he doesn’t sit in a second, I’m going to dig in, and it’s gonna be really, really weird.
But then he sighs and takes the seat across from me. He grabs a fork and starts shoveling eggs into his mouth.
I go for the steak. It’s perfect. Almost mooing. No seasoning to get in the way of the flavor. My wolf is stoked. She gives a few appreciative yips.
Killian’s stern lips lift for a brief second, and his fork pauses midair.
“There’s more once you finish that,” he says.
There are at least three eggs, twelve ounces of steak, and another eight of ham on this plate.
“This is good.”
He makes a noncommittal grunt and goes back to conveyor-belting food into his mouth. His hair’s stuck up in the front. I’ve seen it this way before. When he fights, he gets sweaty and disheveled. This messy is different, though. It makes me squirm. Makes my chest feel wide open.
It’s just the two of us in this peaceful, sun-filled cabin.
I’ve never been alone with a male in his home. That’s how things are arranged now, right? So that the lone females aren’t ever alone with males. I’m either at my place with the girls, or up at Abertha’s cottage, or we’re at the lodge helping Old Noreen, or we’re at the laundry with Cheryl and whichever protected females pulled the short straw that week.
In Killian’s father’s time, it was different. Lone females had to attach themselves to someone to get fed, a sympathetic mated pair or a male. Or males.
That would’ve been worse. But that doesn’t make how things are now good.
There’s a knock on the front door. I startle. Killian doesn’t even turn his head.
“Ignore it,” he says.
I sniff. It’s hard to make out with all the food, but it smells like Tye.
Killian growls. His dusky blue eyes flash gold. He points his fork at me. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Sniff.”
I snort a laugh. “I can’t not smell.”
He glares. A tic in his temple flutters. “Try.” And then he sighs. “It’s Tye. He’ll come back later. After you’re fed.”