Filthy rich werewolves by Taylor Caine novel Chapter 6

I’m speechless.

I think he’s talking about… no.

I already told him I have no wolf.

And we aren’t packmates—or any kind of mates!—so the normal way our beasts would connect and interact with one another… that won’t apply here.

The thought saddens me.

“I, uh, just thought you’d be more comfortable…”

I’m blushing again. And I feel awkward.

These are emotions I haven’t experienced in so long they feel foreign to me.

Jay steps back a few feet.

He rolls down his sleeves and undoes a few buttons. Then he peels his shirt over his head.

His abs ripple.

His chest is … dense with muscle. His skin is bronzed like he spends a lot of time in the sun.

His pants hang low on his hips and he doesn’t wear a belt. When he undoes the top button and slides down the zipper, I clamp my eyes shut.

He makes some sound. It isn’t a laugh, I don’t think. Or if it is, it is a very rusty one.

I wish I could see his eyes.

His body.

To see that magical moment when space and time seem to glimmer and the body contorts, morphing into something else.

I don’t move.

I don’t think I breathe.

It’s several seconds before something cold nudges my hand.

I open my eyes and look down. It’s his snout.

This wolf is huge.

He’s dark, not quite black throughout, but with an undercoat of grey and brown that shows through when he moves.

He sits on his haunches, his head near to my hand. And I can’t resist. I reach out and rub along his head and shoulders.

He leans into my touch.

His fur is so soft and I wish I had my own wolf. That Ava could rub against him, learning his personality and smell.

Our beasts communicate so much better than we do. Everything is instinctual. None of the guessing or pretense or wondering at motives.

Wolves are primal that way, and stronger because of it.

I grab a heavy blanket and set it on the floor beside my bed. I move to set my pillow on the ground and he growls at me.

All right.

It’s not like I would’ve minded sleeping on the floor. The mattress at the prison wasn’t more than an inch thick.

He nudges my hand then swings his head toward the bathroom. It’s obvious he wants me to go in. And, of course, I intend to. I’m sure I smell of sweat and Christopher, and I can’t wait to wash this night off of me.

I cross the small room and he stays there near the bed, waiting.

I grab my nightclothes and gasp when I enter the bathroom.

I’m a mess.

Blood on my face, a busted, swollen lip. Bruises on my throat and jaw.

A moment later, he’s there. His wolf eyes assessing me, a low growl emanating.

“I’m okay,” I whisper. “I, uh, didn’t realize what a mess I am.”

There’s a cut on my arm and when I rub the back of my head my hand comes away red.

Jay growls viciously.

“It’s not deep. It’s just a scape. Head wounds always bleed a lot.”

How sad is it, that I should know that so intimately?

This wolf cocks his head like he thinks what I said is sad too.

I turn on the shower and he swings back into the main room. I quietly close the door, strip and step under the water.

I want it to be hot.

But the plumbing in this building is old, so instead the shower alternates between lukewarm and cold.

I’m shivering by the time I finish and my hands are cramping painfully.

I towel dry the best I can and dress quickly.

When I step out, Jay is in his human form again.

“You look disappointed,” he says.

I guess I sort of am. It’s been years since I’ve been connected to my wolf, and maybe seeing his satisfies some of the loneliness. Like I might be alone, but I’m still part of something.

Our species lives on.

Even if not through me.

Not my baby.

I cross the room and climb into bed. I’m sad and unsettled, but then Jay surprises me and sits down on the mattress beside me, and I suck in a breath as he leans over me.

His hand lifts my face from side to side.

I’m not sure what I expected. Or what I’m feeling. “I, uh, I’m fine. Just a few bruises.”