Page 18 of Red

“I’m fine. I stopped in to grab something. Get some fresh air. Don’t leave the deck. I’ll know if you do.” With that, he walks away.

I stay outside until dinnertime approaches. Stark might have seen me, but a week isn’t long enough not to raise questions if they thought I’d need a damn funeral. Ridiculous how weak I am to them.

I spend the next week reading various books from Stark’s collection. I’m learning that Pratt sure sucked at finding books. I found a few myself, but he went into other territories. Even then, this collection puts anything I’ve read to shame.

I’m scanning the stacks when Stark knocks his routine two hits. Every time. He doesn’t wait for me to answer before he comes in and crouches down beside me. “Looking for something in particular?”

“Nope.” I stand up and step away from the section. It’s filled with various history books on werewolves.

“I have to go to town for a meeting and Jocko is going to stay with you.”

I imagine Jocko’s light-brown fur defending me, and laughter chokes out.

Stark misses the humor to the situation and glares back at me.

“I don’t need a babysitter. Seriously, I told you days ago you didn’t need to stay home.”

His hand slides into his pocket. “Home?”

“This is your home?”

He nods. “I’ll be back for dinner, and you are expected to join.”

“Yes, Alpha.” I give him a mini drill-sergeant-type wave, and he leans in closer. That deep smell fills the space around me, a mystery mixed with pine. His breath catches, and I lean back into the books to avoid his chest touching me. The shelves threaten to dig into my spine. Stark’s eyes are slits, and I drop mine to his lips, parted and kissable. My legs close on instinct. No . . . I am not this attracted to the innkeeper. I watch his Adam’s apple rise and fall, and a small growl comes from the back of it.

I will hurt her.

“Um,” I say.

He leaps back and straightens. Of course, it wasn’t attraction leading him to pin me—it was rage. He wants to kill me himself.

“Dress nice.”

The door closes behind him.

Rude much?

It’s early, and talking to Jocko might be a nice change. Having people want me dead is old news. I exit the bedroom and find Jocko standing in the kitchen, scouring the fridge.

“Hi,” I say.

“Aloka, I’m so happy to see you moving. The rumors must have been worse than reality.”

I shrug. “Yeah, must have been. Sorry you’re stuck here on babysitting duty.” He’s the cohort’s second-in-command, like Pratt, and this is his job today.

“Oh, no, it’s no problem. Stark will be gone for a few hours and then we have dinner tonight. You’ll see.”

“Where’s he going anyway?”

“Don’t worry about it. Just pack business.”

We take seats in the pit, and Jocko pulls out a checkerboard hidden from within the coffee table. From my position, I can barely reach the pieces, and the second he notices, he drags the table closer. We play a few rounds, taking turns winning. I jump my dark wooden piece over his and do a mini victory dance in my seat, sticking out my tongue. As Jocko’s laugh fills the house, his knee bumps the table, sending pieces to the ground. I hop down to collect the few that rolled under the couch.

“I thought you had brown hair?” Jocko’s voice raises in question.

“I do?” No, this isn’t good. My hands tense, dropping the small rounds to the floor.

“It’s red. Look in the light at the top.” He points to my roots.