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He hugged me close against his chest. “You need to go back, pretty wolf. I’ve stolen you long enough, and your smell is exquisite. And the breeze will draw predators.”
“I think you mean peepers.” I absorbed a few more heartbeats of the moment and basked in the ocean of darkness and warmth. The breeze had shifted, though, and while the chances of our scent being noticed in the throngs of AmberHowl was remote, if certain wolves noticed, I’d be served at breakfast with the rest of the toast.
He kissed the base of my neck.
As much as it hurt to move from him, aswrongas it felt, and as impossible as any life without each other seemed to be, we parted, shifted forms, and went our separate ways.
His Grip
Isnuck back into the house without any difficulty. The party was still going strong, although there were a number of wolves already passed out on the lawn. Parents with pups who hadn’t shifted yet, or she-wolves who were pregnant past the point of shifting, made arrangements at nearby hotels, or set up a tent to camp, while everyone else went wolf-form and found somewhere to pass out. The preferred spot was usually the ground in a giant apex predator cuddle puddle, but backseats and truck beds were also valid. Atno laterthan dawn, pick up any debris in your general vicinity beforequietlytoddling towards your transportation. Loitering, expecting coffee, breakfast, or a chat was theheightof rudeness. When you got invited to someone’s territory-within-a-territory, youneveroverstayed.
In werewolf etiquette, your host’s obligations ended when you fell asleep or the sun came up, whichever came first. If you weren’t gone by an hour after dawn, you were a “bad guest” and your name put on a Do Not Invite List. As in, when invites for something went out, you’d get a card too. Specifically telling you that you werenotinvited.
I might have beenunwanted, but I’d never beenuninvited.
I didn’t risk taking the hidden little side door off the mud porch. Would have had to move too much stuff, and the movement might have attracted attention anddefinitelywould have made me look guilty, and I already smelled guilty.Veryguilty. I peeked inside the kitchen window, though. Looked empty.
“Right.” I whispered to myself.
Pulled open the door, stepped inside, closed it carefully, then headed down the hallways to the front rooms. It waslate, but noteveryone is asleeplate. From the general noise levels, most everyone was still outside enjoying the party. Up the stairs to the third floor, down the hallway, and the closed door of my (our) room.
Success.
Searle was sitting on the bed, looking out the window, except the window’s curtains were drawn.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
He stood and turned. His expression was more quartz than moss.
I raised my chin.
He stalked over and inhaled, nostrils flaring, and rage increasing. “You reek ofhim.”
“Keep your voice down,” I hissed.
“Yousnuck offwith him.”
“Yes.” I limited myself to that single syllable answer.
“Youfuckedhim,” Searle growled.
“So what if I did?” I shot back, pushing past him to get into the room so that any ambitious wolf who wanted to lean against our door would have to work at least a little harder to hear the argument. I yanked off my shirt, which still smelled of Sterling. I’d have to wash it.
Searle seemed to glide with his tight, controlled gait as he slid back into the room, his anger absorbing the air and warming the walls. “You aremymate. You areneversneaking off again, especially not to come back here reeking of another male and the orgasm he gave you!”
“I amnot your mate!Heis my mateand my husband,” I snarled.
“Iam your mate. You stood up in front of the entire pack and accepted me as your mate. Then an hour later you go off and cuckold me. Take your jeans off.Now.”
If he’d just shut up for thirty seconds, I’d been halfway out of my jeans, but now I definitely did not want to take my jeans off. I didn’t break eye contact, but twisted my fingers tighter into my flannel. “You aredeluded. You knew what we just did was a farce!”
Searle grabbed the flannel and yanked it free. He smelled of firelight and liquor. He flung it onto the ground. “Take them off!”
My brain held up possible scenarios like paint chips being held against a wall, trying to find the best option. Taking my jeans off seemed the best course of action. Other outcomes might have resulted in Searle tossing me to the pack as a harlot or resorting to violence. Neither outcome sounded particularly productive.
