She winces when I run the washcloth along her ribs, and I make a mental note to wrap those after the shower.
Alaina pulls her head back and loosens her grip around my neck. Her face is close enough that I can’t quite see her expression clearly, but she’s far enough away that her lips don’t brush mine when she talks.
“Thank you, Dec.” She brushes a kiss on the corner of my mouth. “For this.” Another kiss on the opposite side of my mouth. “And for coming for me.” A third kiss against the center of my mouth. “And for being here.”
I let her take the lead, never pushing to claim her like I’ve been aching to do for nearly a year.
She places feather-light kisses along my face, her palms resting on the top of my shoulders. It’s all I can do not to push into her and give her what she’s so tentatively offering. Instead, I squeeze my grip on her hip and hope she understands the silent memo I’m sending.
I stand up with her in my arms and make my way out of the shower. I’m grateful Wolf talked us into renovating the bathrooms in this place. We took a place that was passable and turned it into a true safe house that we could comfortably live in for a very long time.
I set Alaina down on the counter in between the double sinks and reach behind me to grab the towel from the floor. Someone must’ve accidentally bumped it, but it’s strange that I didn’t hear anyone. Of course, it’s entirely possible that I just didn’t hear over the shower. But usually my senses pick up on these sorts of things.
It’s a blessing and a curse to know when someone’s going to meet their maker. I’m still not sure how I’m still breathing most days, but I do know that I’m willing—begging—to put up with the curse if it means she stays safe.
Thoughts of what could’ve happened if we were late or if we couldn’t find her plague me, and I have a feeling they’re going to twist my nightmares into something unbearable for a very long time, maybe forever.
She doesn’t protest when I wrap the towel around her body and snag another one for her hair. Her eyes close when I gently squeeze her hair in the towel, tugging on the strands a little. Her lashes are dark smudges against her soft skin—a juxtaposition with the purple bruising around her eye.
Fear makes my chest tight. It’s not a new emotion for me, but it’s one I’ve rarely felt. And never like this. I’ve never felt the soul-crushing panic and fear of loss of control like I have for the last day and a half.
“You’re dripping,” she says, her eyes closing.
“Don’t worry about it. Let’s get you to bed. Wolf’s bringing you some food first, and then you can sleep.”
Chapter Twelve
Alaina
After Rush towel-dries my hair and helps me get dressed in borrowed clothes, I feel practically comatose. Between the soothing words he murmurs and the steamy bathroom, I’m fighting sleep.
Rush helps me into the giant bed in the middle of the bedroom. I’m too drained to appreciate the luxury of the platform bed. It must be an extra-long California king, and it’s covered in a fluffy duvet that looks like it would feel like clouds.
As soon as I get settled in the middle of the bed, Wolf walks in the room with a plate of food. My stomach rumbles on cue, and I genuinely wonder how long it’s been since I ate.
“What day is it?”
“Sunday morning,” Rush answers as he bends down to brush a kiss across my forehead. “I’ve got a few things to take care of now that we’re here, but Wolf will stay with you.” He brushes a wet strand of hair behind my ear, his expression unreadable but intense nonetheless.
“Swear you’re not leaving?”
“Aye. I’ll be in my office.”
I nod and watch as he crosses the room, looking back at me when he reaches the doorway. Wolf slides in bed next to me, holds out the aluminum-foil-covered plate to me in one hand and two white pills in the other.
“What’s this?”
“I made you blueberry waffles. And you need to take these. It’ll help with the pain,” Wolf says.
“I love blueberry waffles,” I murmur. I’m surprised that I’m feeling so pleased. Like it might be wrong somehow . . . to feel so joy after I just ended someone’s life.
“I know,” Wolf says with a knowing smirk.
I settle against the headboard next to Wolf and tuck into my plate of food. There’s something so comforting about a big, fluffy waffle—nostalgic almost. The waffles are delicious—crisp on the outside but gooey in the middle with a hint of cinnamon and vanilla. I sigh in satisfaction.
I look at Wolf from underneath my lashes as I chew another bite. “Where did you to make this?”
He breaks a piece of waffle off and pops it into his mouth. “Sarah, mostly. I wanted to be able to make myself food if she wasn’t around, so one day I asked her to show me how to make a few easy meals. Then she showed Rush and Sully too. I’m not nearly as good as her, but I can get by.”
“How old were you?”
He rubs the stubble on his chin as he looks to the side. “Around twelve probably.”
I nod as I eat another bite. “That’s around the same time I learned too. We had just moved into a new dorm suite, and even though we had access to a dining hall, I wanted to make us chocolate chip cookies in our small kitchenette to celebrate.” I smile as I remember pulling the cookie sheet out of the oven. “I burned that first batch so bad, they looked more like hockey pucks than cookies.”
Wolf chuckles. “You don’t strike me as the kinda girl that gives up that easy.”
His words so easily given serve to remind me of what happened earlier—at the cabin. I don’t want to think about what could’ve happened had I given up. It’s a dark road that I’m not sure I’ll be able to get off once I start.
I turn to face him. “I’m not. I made dozens of cookies that day until I got them just right.”
He must hear the difference in my voice because he looks at me quickly, the smile dropping from his face.
“You’re alright, baby girl. You’re here—I’m here. And you’re safe.” His voice is low and measured, it’s the perfect balm to my frayed nerves.
I nod a few times and turn back to my plate of comfort carbs. We’re both silent as I take my time eating. It tastes sweeter somehow, knowing that Wolf made it for me.
I lick my lips, tasting the remnants of sticky-sweet syrup. “Wolf?” I ask, turning my head to look at him. His eyes are closed, hands folded on his chest, and he’s reclining against the headboard.
“Hmm?”
“What’s going to happen to that guy. The one from . . . you know.”
Wolf’s eyes pop open, and he turns his head to look at me. “You don’t have to worry about that. We took care of it.”
“Oh.” I set my plate and fork on the nightstand beside me to buy myself some time to process.
Do I want to know what that means?
Would he even tell me?
“I . . . I’m not sure that I need to know what that means, but a small part of me wants to know. I feel—I feel like we’re starting something.” I pause and look at him. When he continues, so do I, “We’re starting something, and I have this gut feeling that it’s going to be amazing and scary and a bunch of other adjectives that I can’t think of because it hurts my brain right now.” I flash him an apologetic smile. “So I’m not sure if I should know so we can start this with honesty.”