Last Wolf Watching. Rhyannon Byrd
Читать онлайн книгу.
a mug. Sheâd already made arrangements with one of her employees to run things at Michaelaâs Muse, her paranormal specialty shop, for a few daysâbut she hadnât considered that she might be away longer than that.
As if following her train of thought, Brody said, âI want you in the Alley, Doucet. In my cabin.â The dark sound of his voice shivered across her senses, but his expression remained unreadable, as if they were discussing nothing more interesting than the weather. âI donât trust whatâs happening in the pack and weâre too vulnerable in town.â
She wanted to argue. She had a life, a business in the city. And yet, none of that would ever be the same again. Max wouldnât be coming back home with her. Working with her. Living with her. The pain crushed down on her again, but she battled against the tears. âLetâs go down tonight,â she said shakily, hoping he didnât hear the tremor in her words. âI can get what I need from home, then go by the shop and close things down. My customers will justâ¦have to understand.â
âYou donât have to close. David would be more than happy to keep it open for you,â Torrance suggested from the table, having obviously been listening in on their conversation. David Sharp was a loyal, longtime employee who had worked at Michaelaâs Muse while getting his degree in advertising and had recently returned home to Covington.
âI donât know,â she murmured, picking up a coffee mug. âHeâs a sweetheart, but I couldnât ask him toââ
âSure you could,â Torrance said softly. âIt shouldnât take you more than a day to go down and get the accounts all settled. You can even show David how to do the payroll, then leave everything in his hands until itâs safe for you to go back.â
Michaela gave a wary nod, knowing she had little choice if she wanted to remain in business, and turned back toward the sink, moving on to the last dish. âSo what time do you want to leave?â
Brody didnât answerâjust stood there watching her with a strange, intense expression hardening the grooves that bracketed his mouth. âWhat?â she whispered, wondering what was bothering him.
âNothing,â he muttered. Then he uncrossed his arms and started to shift away from the counter, only to stop. Shoving his hands deep into the front pockets of his jeans, he suddenly asked, âCan you use it on me?â
Michaela blinked at him in confusion. âUse it? Use what?â
He jerked his chin at her, his dark eyes narrowed and heavy-lidded. âThat witchy thing that you do.â
âWitchy thing?â she repeated, trying to stifle a laugh when she realized he was deadly serious. âI can assure you, Brody, that Iâm not a witch.â
âI want to know, Doucet.â
âKnow what?â she pressed, finding some perverse pleasure in pushing his buttons. And he was still calling her Doucet, which just made her feel ornery.
He stepped closer, invading her personal space, and the moonlight spilling in through the open kitchen window played across his face, revealing the stark angles and hollows. His nostrils flared, as if he were breathing in her scent, and she realized that from this close, she could see his scars in vivid detail as they cut over his face, slashing from his left eyebrow, across the bridge of his nose, down to his opposite jaw. Her fingers itched to reach out and stroke them, wishing she could wipe away the deep-seated pain that lingered in his eyes. He tried to hide so much behind his angry scowls, but she saw through them. The liquid depths of his bottle-green eyes were like a window into his soul, beautifulâ¦and yet, so filled with hurt, as scarred within as he was without.
âJust ask me, Brody,â she whispered softly, trying to tell him with her gaze that he could trust her. âI promise Iâll be honest with you.â
Something wild and hot and primitive flared in those mysterious green depths, lost as quickly as it appeared beneath the lowering of his lashesâand in a husky, silken slide of words, he said, âI want to know if you can you read me.â
Chapter 4
They made the drive down to the city in relative silence, the radio delivering a quiet string of blues, the sensual tenor of an alto sax keeping rhythm with the steady beat of the tires upon the road. The second Brody had cranked the powerful V-8 engine, a quiet, exhausted lassitude had poured through her like warm, rich honey. Even now, it melted Michaela into the seat of the truck, while Brodyâs scent filled her head, surrounding her in the smooth, intimate darkness.
She took a deep breath, and savored it. God, he smelled good. Not pretty or flowery, but like a man. His scent was as crisp and rich as the outdoors, as the forest itself. Woodsy with traces of musk and salt. Completely delicious.
Sitting there beside him in the midnight dark, Michaela was uncomfortably aware that sheâd never known a man whom she found more attractive, more compelling. The more time she spent with him, the more she felt inexplicably drawn to the quiet Runner, as if she wanted to wrap her arms around those broad shoulders and simply hold on to him. Comfort him, easing the hard tension she didnât need mystical powers to feel pouring off him in waves. And take comfort from him in return, drawing on his strength until she didnât feel so hollow inside, so broken and barren and wrecked. If heâd only show her a little warmth, she knew sheâd be in serious danger of letting her emotions get the better of her. But he remained as cold and remote as ever.
And the fact youâre upset about it proves that youâre losing your mind.
She scowled at her know-it-all conscience and turned to stare back out her own window. Beyond the cozy confines of the truck, a light drizzle began to fall, adding to the strange feeling of intimacy. When his deep, whispery baritone intruded into the soft monotony of sound, she jumped, startled.
âSorry. I didnât mean to spook you,â he murmured, sliding her an uneasy look, as if he expected her to cringe away from him in terror, now that they were alone.
She gave him a small, self-conscious grin and tucked a curl behind her ear. âYou didnât. I guess Iâm just jumpyâ¦still on edge after everything thatâs happened. I was so lost in my thoughts I didnât hear what you said.â
He made a subtle gesture with his shoulders that did something wonderfully wicked to those hard muscles beneath the clinging cotton of his shirt. âI just wondered how you got that little gift of yours. The one you said doesnât work on me.â
Her grin bled into a soft burst of laughter that she tried to hide under her breath, half watching her fingers play in the folds of her skirt while soaking up as much of him as she could from the corner of her eye. Sorting through her explanation in her head, she decided to start at the beginning. âMy maternal grandmother, who lived in the bayou, was a gifted seer, and I guess I was lucky enough to have some of her powers make their way to me, though Iâm nowhere near as strong as she was. I have a really good sixth sense about things, and sometimes Iâm able to read people.â
âRead them how?â he asked, sounding curious.
âIâm not quite sure how to explain.â She shrugged, nervous under the force of his attention, even as he kept his hands and eyes on the road. But he was focused on her, every part of him. She knew it, felt it, and it was a heady, breathtaking sensation that made her want to scoot closer to him. He looked so strong and solid sitting beside her, so invincible and tough. It made her want to just crawl inside of him and pull him around her like a fortress, like the most amazing security blanket she could ever find.
Blinking in surprise, Michaela winced, startled by the discomfiting thought. She wasnât the kind of woman who went looking for a man to take care of her or to hide behind. She was a woman who prided herself on her independence and sensibility, but then, the last few weeks had