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18
Sable
For the next week, the four of us spend nearly every waking moment together, falling into a comfortable routine. After that first evening when Archer had to pull me out of my panic-fueled flashback, all three men treat me with gentle compassion—even Trystan, who I doubt such empathy comes easy to.
And thanks to their awareness, I don’t have another panic attack.
Plus, exactly as Ridge promised me, they leave me alone at night to sleep in the one bed by myself, while they curl up in wolf form on the living room floor. I’m so thankful for their attentiveness to my feelings, but I can’t help the guilt that twinges my chest. The floor isn’t nearly as comfortable and warm as the bed, and to be honest, when we say good night, I feel an emptiness that carries me through the night and isn’t filled until I wake up to the sounds and smells of them making breakfast every morning.
Something inside me feels like it’s trapped. Locked away and desperate to reach out and touch these three men.
My body just won’t obey.
It’s like I’m broken—like maybe that part of me will never work again. Never had a chance to work in the first place, even. My uncle beat the capacity to love someone, to truly connect with someone, right out of me.
Maybe that was his plan from the start.
On our eighth day in the cabin, I lounge on the front steps, watching as my three companions split firewood in the yard. They’re passing an axe around between them, and they’ve stripped off their shirts. Despite the brisk chill in the air, their torsos are shiny with exertion as they take turns chopping logs on a sawed-off tree stump.
I’m having a hard time not staring, and an even harder time not drooling. It’s clear they’re showing off for me.
The cabin is fairly rustic—we’re cooking our meals over the fire in the fireplace, and much of our dinners have come from the men shifting and hunting. The running water for the shower comes from a rain basin, while the electricity comes from a generator that’s typically off all day and only used for a small portion of the evening. Regardless, there’s already a giant pile of cut firewood against the side of the cabin, yet here we are.
Trystan shoves Ridge out of the way with his elbow and raises the axe, casting a glance my way as if to make sure I’m watching before he brings it down on the log. Then Ridge steps around Trystan, giving me another telling look before he sets up a log and does the same.
Biting my lip to hide an amused smile, I dig my toe into the dirt by the front steps.
Truthfully, I can’t help but like the way they’re showing off for me.
The attention is a balm to my broken heart, and it balances out all the years I lay alone in my bed in my uncle’s house, wondering if I’d ever have a friend or a reason to even live.
But beyond the friendly competition, I can sense real tension between the men—all of them, even Archer, the sweetest and most level-headed of the three.
I hate that tension. Things they’ve said, jabs they’ve taken at each other, all of it adds up to my impression that despite their treaty, their three packs are at odds with each other and have been for some time. Adding me to the mix as a potential mate for all three of them has only fueled the already smoldering fire.
“Sable,” Archer calls, jarring me from my thoughts.
“Hm?” I look at him, standing in a patch of sunlight that spills through the trees. His tanned skin shines like it's illuminated from within, and the way he’s resting the axe handle on his shoulder displays the muscles in his chest.
“You’re up. Come give it a try,” he says, holding up another—smaller—axe with a smile. “You might feel better if you take some of your anger out on firewood.”
I can’t exactly argue that point. I broke a few things in my time living with Clint when everything got to be too much, although I usually paid for it later or took great pains to clean up and
hide the mess.
Still…
“I don’t know,” I say, eyeing the weapon. “It looks hard. And dangerous.”
Ridge stretches out his shoulders, grinning at me as he jerks his chin in invitation. “We’ll teach you.”
His voice warms my insides and chases away the lingering misgivings I have. I hop to my feet and join them in the patchy sunlight, taking the offered axe from Archer. It’s lighter than I expected but still has heft to it. A few swings will probably work out muscles I didn’t even know I had.
Ridge steps up behind me, reaching around to place my hands in position. “You’ll have better control if you keep your hands separate,” he advises, his breath tickling my ear. A tingle starts low in my body, and I have to fight the urge to sink back against his bare chest, to nuzzle into his skin and breathe deeply of his familiar pine scent.
Archer places a round log atop the stump and then backs away, well out of range of the crazy girl with the axe.
Smart man.
