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I really didn’t want to wait around for this guy to wake up so I could ask whether he’d intentionally bit me and what that meant. But there I sat, at the edge of the bed, watching him, unsure of what else to do. Should I ask him if I could ride with him to the next thing resembling civilization? Did I want to stay with him? I mean, he’d almost bitten me. And he had people shooting at him, which didn’t say much for him in terms of character. If I were smart, I would creep quietly out of the room and be on my way.
But I just couldn’t. Before I left, I needed to make sure he was going to be OK. I felt responsible for him. Somehow, I’d fallen into pack thinking, without the actual werewolf genes or the cool superpowers. I had gotten the short end of the T-bone on this deal.
And on top of everything else, I was starving. I hadn’t eaten since lunch the previous day. Between the cold, my low BMI, and whatever fresh hell the road was going to throw at me that day, I needed calories desperately. I considered the turkey jerky, which was the least weird, compared to the alligator, ostrich, and venison. But I didn’t think my roommate would appreciate waking up to find me rifling through his bag, stealing his preserved meat. I considered driving closer to town to see if I could find a diner or something. But he definitely wouldn’t appreciate waking up to find that his truck was missing, either. I was still contemplating grand theft auto versus exotic jerky when his eyes fluttered open, slowly taking in the room. With a jerk, he rolled off the bed to his feet. He seemed to be searching the room. And when his eyes settled on me, the searching stopped.
He stared at me, as if trying to jog his memory. His nostrils flared, and he seemed to recognize something. His eyes narrowed.
Damn it.
“Hi. I was there last night when you were, um . . . well, I got you here and cleaned you up.” I hitched my bag over my shoulder and made for the door. “Room’s paid up till eleven. Good luck.”
He was at the door before I could blink. “Ack!” I cried, hating the way I cringed against the door, arms curved protectively over my head. With his head cocked to the side, he curled his fingers around my wrists and pulled them down. I nearly yanked them back, but his hands were gentle. He ran the tip of his nose along my hairline.
“L-look, you can check your bag, I didn’t take anything,” I stammered.
He moved closer, inhaling deeply while his fingers traced over the mark on my neck. And there was that weird purring noise again.
Right, pretend ignorance of werewolves and their near-bite-y tendencies. Avoid explanations of why you know about the existence of werewolves. Those conversations could only lead to bad places.
“If this is about the shooting . . . I won’t tell anybody. I don’t even know who would believe me.”
He nuzzled his cheek against my temple. “Mine. You stay with me.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Beg pardon?”
His eyes were all spacey and bleary as he murmured, “You stay with me.”
“I don’t stay with anybody,” I told him. “I’m leaving.”
His fingers curled around my arms, and he pulled me close, trailing his nose along my hairline and caressing the spot where he’d tried to bite me. “No.”
“Hey!” I pulled at his grip, but damn it, this guy was strong. My hand snaked into my purse for the slapjack I carried, thin layers of leather surrounding a heavy lead ball that hurt like hell when it connected with a sensitive joint. “Let go of me.”
“No.”
“Stop now!” I said in the most commanding tone I could muster. Shoving him away from my body, I brought the heavy weight of the slapjack down on the wrist that held my arm. And I stomped on his foot, hard.
“Ow!” he yelped. He seemed to come back to himself; his pupils were less constricted. He blinked a few times and cleared his threat. “Ow,” he said again, almost absentmindedly, rubbing his wrist. “Who are you?”
“Anne McCaffrey,” I blurted out, hoping that he didn’t spend a lot of time reading carefully crafted science fiction. His realizing I’d just used my favorite author as an alias would prove . . . awkward. The werewolf frowned at me, as if he could sense the lie, but before he could comment, I added, “I helped you out last night when you were hurt. And now I would like you to back away from me very slowly, so I can open the door and get the hell out of here.”
Where was I going? I had no clue. More important, I had no vehicle. But it had to be safer than hanging around werewolf shooting victims with toothy tendencies.
His glance shot down to the slapjack in my hand, and he took a careful, small step back. “That was you?”
“Yes.”
“Who are you?”
“I thought we covered this. Did you bump your head?”
“What were you doing in the parking lot last night?” he demanded.
“What does it matter? I bandaged you up, borrowed your shirt. I figure that makes us even. So I’m going to be on my way.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head and clamping his hand around my arm. “I owe you. You stay with me.”
“Well, it’s lovely that you’ve moved on to using definitive sentences, but I think you’ll find that you are not, in fact, the boss of me. Now, let go of my arm, or I reintroduce you to Mr. Slappy.” I waved the slapjack in his face. A guilty expression slipped across his features, and his fingers loosened their hold.
