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“I don’t need you,” she said, though there was an edge to her voice that was almost soft.
“Maybe not,” Chris said gently. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m going to stay right here until I’m sure he’s not coming back. You can hate me for it in the morning.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, and nothing came out, and the look on her face was so furious and so lost at the same time that he had to ball his fists at his sides to keep from reaching for her.
She turned her back on him instead. Walked to the counter, ran the tap, and splashed water on her face. Her hands were shaking so badly that the water ran everywhere, down her wrists, onto the floor, pooling at her feet.
Chris stayed where he was. He watched the door. He listened for footsteps on the porch, for the snap of twigs, for the tobacco smell to return on the breeze.
His wolf settled into his bones, pointed at the woman at the sink, and did not stand down.
Chapter 4 - Sloane
He didn’t leave.
Sloane stood at the counter with her back to him, gripping the edge of the sink, water still dripping from her chin. Behind her, Chris leaned against the wall beside the ruined door frame. She could hear him breathing, an incessant reminder that she wasn’t alone. That there was a man in her home who felt as though she was too weak to protect herself. She pushed down the reality of it all. That he thought it because it was what he had seen.
She turned off the tap, dried her hands on the dish towel, and pressed the cloth against her throat, which was already swelling into a shape she’d have to explain or hide. She’d hidden worse.
“You can stand there all night,” she said without turning around. “I don’t care.”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are.”
She gripped the towel harder. Her fingers were still trembling, a betrayal she could feel but refused to look at. The adrenaline was crashing out of her blood in waves, leaving cold behind it, leaving the specific heavy exhaustion that came after her body had spent twenty minutes locked in a survival mode she hadn’t chosen.
He’d seen her. That was the part she couldn’t get past. Chris Williams, who she’d last spoken to in the dining hall six months ago in a conversation that lasted four words, had watched a man wrap his hand around her throat while she sat on her cot with her arms at her sides like a child waiting to be hit.
Her stomach lurched. She swallowed against it.
“Who was he?” Chris asked.
“I told you. Nobody.”
“Nobody walked onto Beaumont territory, broke into your home, put his hands around your neck, knew where to find you. That’s not nobody. That’s someone with a plan.”
“Then he’s someone with a plan who isn’t your concern.”
She turned. He was exactly where she expected him to be, shoulder against the wall, arms folded, his body blocking the gap where the door used to hang. His face held an expression she didn’t recognize on him. She’d watched Chris Williams from a distance for years, cataloged his easy warmth, the loose way he moved through rooms, the smile he gave to patrol wolves coming off shift. None of that was here now. His eyes were bright with a focus that hadn’t dimmed since he’d thrown Garrett into the wall, his mouth set in a line that looked like it had been drawn with a ruler.
“Move,” she said coldly, a transparent attempt to keep her cool.
“No.”
“You’re blocking my door.”
“You don’t have a door. I broke it.”
She stared at him. “Then move so I can see the path, at least. I don’t need you standing between me and the only exit.”
His expression shifted. The focus didn’t leave, but the way he held himself changed. He uncrossed his arms, stepped sideways, and put himself against the other wall instead. Gave her a clear line to the porch.
She hadn’t expected him to do that.
Most men, told they were making a woman feel boxed in, would have argued. Or explained why they needed to stay right where they were. Chris just moved. He did it without commentary, without making her feel like she’d asked for too much, without the weighted pause that turned compliance into a favor.
