Page 8 of Red

Jocko side-eyes me and goes to speak, but he doesn’t get a chance. A black wolf emerges from the forest behind us. Dark as the deep forest on a cloudy night, their shoulders reach the height of the truck’s roof. Blue eyes I swear I’ve seen before don’t look at me as it steps out of the woods, the four-foot snowbanks nothing more than pennies to step over. They let out a huge breath of air, forming a condensation cloud the size of me.

The passenger leans back in his seat and the driver’s hands both rise to the wheel.

“Shit. Hi, Stark.”

Stark? Those eyes are the same ones that bore into me at the dinner table.

“You know we’re right. Why the hell do you need that in your house? A human.” He spits out the last word.

Stark lets out a low growl, and without another word, the driver shifts into drive and takes off.

Before they make it out of sight, Stark is gone. Wolf speed is annoyingly quick.

“Sorry about that, Aloka.” Jocko moves closer to me but doesn’t reach out to touch me, which I’m grateful for. At least some men know what personal space is.

“You didn’t say it. Don’t worry. It’s far from the worst I’ve heard.” I shake out my limbs from head to toe.

“That. What you just did is a werewolf thing.” Jocko eyes me and mimics my shake.

“I guess growing up around them things rub off on you.” He nods accepting my explanation.

I do it again, trying to release the tension inside. It’s not the men that bugged me. I managed to keep the heat in me below boiling, knowing the type when they started to talk. It’s Stark—I have never seen black fur like that, not where it reflected blue. His size has to be double what Pratt was. A werewolf’s size and looks aren’t fully determined by their human body, so you never know what someone might look like. I want to see it again.

When we return to the house, it’s mid-morning. Even with our slower jog back and interruption, we took a lot more time than Stark and I. Despite the lack of privacy, I had a much better time than yesterday.

Jocko takes off soon after, needing to do his shift on patrol.

I linger in the driveway as he shifts so I can see what his form looks like—a huge light-brown wolf. Clouds form around his nose as he turns his head at me, gives a small wink, then tears off through the snow. Jealousy surges through me. The ease at which they all live, turning without a thought.

Back in the house, I slip into a pair of loose shorts and a tank top. The windows of the house allow the sun to shine across the wooden floors as I find a book on the variety of wolf colorings, interested more than ever in hues of black. The urge that flooded my fingertips to just touch his fur was a new one.

True black with no other markings or shading is a rare form. Historically, they have led packs in braveness and strength.

Light brown is a common coloring of wolf. Often, they have darker shades on their legs and may have the ability to assess scents from further distances.

Red and white wolves have been known in legends and myths.

A few hours into skipping through the book, Stark sits across from me in the pit, filling the entire chair. The sheer size of everything in this house was clearly designed for him and the other pack members. While I curl up at one end of the largest couch, feet up, I still fit with ease.

I should thank him for earlier, but it wasn’t a big deal. Eventually, they would have driven off after making a few more comments.

“What’d you find this time?” He tilts his head to read the title of the book in my lap. There’s a different edge to his voice this time, still hard yet not so icy.

I lift the book and wave it in the air for him to read. He nods and stays quiet, as do his thoughts, as he stares out the window past the rear deck to the trees. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, book open in my lap.

Those blue eyes come back to me, his lips hard-lined like that chiseled jaw. “How are you so calm after today?” Guess he is good at hiding his emotions.

“What do you mean?” I accept that he wants to talk and close my book. I have been on the same page for the last ten minutes anyway.

“The Juker brothers, in the truck. You just took it.” His eyebrows scrunch together as he scratches the back of his head.

“Exactly what should have I done?” They think I’m weak enough and I don’t pick useless fights. The people I fought with are gone, I think—even as a memory of the only person I ever really fought with surfaces.

“Cool your center.” Pratt drew his arms down in a smooth motion in front of me. Lake water washed at our ankles.

“I am,” I said, shaking my head.

“Think of the cold water at your feet. Pull it into you.”