I punched in the code for two full dinners, real food, not the protein bars I usually subsisted on.
"You don't need to diet," I kept my back to her as I watched the machine prepare our meals. The words just slipped out before I could stop them. "Your round curves are appealing. To others."
The machine hummed, masking the sound of my internal cursing. What the hell was that? I wasn't some smooth-talking charmer like Zane. I didn't say things like "appealing curves" to women. Especially not to women like Winter who were too bright, too alive for someone like me.
"Thank you," her voice came from behind me, soft and a little shy.
I glanced over my shoulder. Her cheeks had flushed pink, and she was looking down at Frank like he was offering sage advice.
Something flickered between us, a dangerous warmth I couldn't afford to acknowledge. I turned back to the vending machine, grateful when it beeped to announce our food was ready.
"Let's eat."
Chapter
Seven
Winter
Iset my empty plate on the coffee table, surprised at how hungry I'd been. The vending machine had produced a decent meal of roast chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, and some vegetable medley that didn't taste like it came from a machine. I watched as Rook finished his fourth helping, the man ate like he was storing up for winter.
I had always heard shifters' appetites were insane, but never had a chance to experience it.
After placing our dishes in the sink, Rook settled into an armchair across from the couch, his large frame making the furniture look comically small. He sat with his back to the wall, giving him a clear view of both the door and the windows. Always vigilant, this one.
The silence stretched between us, not exactly uncomfortable but not relaxed either. I found myself studying him. The perpetual furrow between his brows, the way his amber eyes constantly scanned the room, the tension he carried in his shoulders like he was always ready to fight or flee.
"So," I broke the silence, stretching my legs out. "Why are you a lone wolf? Aren't werewolves supposed to be pack animals?"
Rook's eyes snapped to mine, his expression hardening. He just stared at me, unblinking, like I'd asked him to describe his most traumatic childhood memory in explicit detail.
After what felt like an eternity, he grunted and looked away, jaw clenched.
"Seriously?" I huffed. "That's all I get? A grunt?"
No response. Of course.
"Fine. Keep your wolfy secrets," I stood up, wincing as my knee protested. I carried Frank's bowl to the kitchenette counter, setting it down carefully. "I'm just trying to make conversation since we're stuck here together."
I turned back to face Rook, who was still doing his best statue impression.
"Look, I'm bored out of my mind. I need a computer or something to do or I swear I'll start singing. And trust me, you do NOT want that." I crossed my arms. "I once made a music teacher cry in the third grade. She said I had creative pitch interpretation."
Rook rolled his eyes, but I caught the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Was that almost a smile?
Progress!
He pulled out his phone, a chunky, military-grade thing that looked like it could survive being run over by a tank, and dialed a number.
"Milo," his voice was gruff. "Bring an agency computer for Winter when you come to relieve me." A pause. "No, not one of thehauntedones from IT." Another pause. "I don't care if they have better graphics. Just bring a normal laptop." He hung up without saying goodbye.
"Thanks," I was genuinely surprised by the gesture.
He grunted again. Back to square one.
"I'm going to take a shower," I announced. "Try not to let any cultists in while I'm gone."
The bathroom was small but functional, with a surprisingly good water pressure. The hot water felt amazing on my aching muscles, washing away the lingering smell of the medical facility and the memory of that cultist's eyes. I stayed under the spray until my fingers pruned, trying not to think about prophecies or chalices or choices.
