Page 66 of A Wolfe in the Woods

“Stick around and find out,” I said quietly.

The elven wine was definitely working its magic now…though I wasn’t drunk. This stuff was potent, but my kind was resilient and my blood could metabolize alcohol far easier than she could.

No…this wasn’t the wine. This was her. I watched her more closely.

The way the firelight hit her skin. The faint flush rising along her throat. The slight sheen of sweat at her collarbone. And then my senses kicked in more strongly as I caught the delicate scent of her perspiration—earthy and clean.

I listened as her pulse beat more steadily at the base of her neck. I could easily hear it. She was turned on. Curious, but trying to play it off. Her restless fingers fidgeted with her napkin, then the stem of her wineglass, like she didn’t quite know what to do with them.

I knew exactly what I wanted them to do.

I wanted them on me—clawing at my hips, trailing lower. And from the look in her eyes, from the scent in the air, from the flush in her skin?—

Damn, I shouldn’t be thinking this. She’d just gotten here only a few hours ago, and this was a reset. A clean slate. I couldkeep these thoughts quiet…let them stir in me, as they stirred something within me.

But Blanche was thinking something too. I could tell. The way her lips parted, the breath she held. Her eyes had gone soft, heavy-lidded, and she was watching me the way I’d been watching her. Not with the calculation of someone trying to flirt, but with the quiet wonder of someone feeling excitement waken and not knowing what to do with it.

A beat passed.

Then another.

I didn’t move. Neither did she.

The fire crackled. Her wineglass hung loose between her fingers, and I could see her pulse thudding softly at her throat.

Then, like dusk fading into night, the current between us dimmed to a low, steady hum.

She took a breath, deeper this time, her shoulders easing with it. The moment hadn’t vanished, but it had softened into something calmer.

She sank deeper into the chair, curling into herself a little. Her fingers let go of the glass, resting it on the table without looking. Her lips parted with a sigh, slower now, and her eyes, watchful a moment ago, grew heavy with wine and warmth. The fire’s glow flickered lazily across her skin.

The evening stretched on, slow and peaceful. We lingered over the last bites of tart, nursed the final inch of wine, and let the conversation drift into softer currents—less banter, more quiet reflections. She told me a story about her grandmother’s tea rituals in winter. I told her about Foley’s habit of talking to the trees.

At some point, the second bottle sat empty on the table, the fire had dimmed to a gentle pulse, and the room took on the hush of a place getting ready to dream.

“This night…” she murmured, her voice slow, gentled. “This fire…Everwick…all of it. It’s just perfect.”

A yawn caught her halfway through the next breath. She covered it with her hand but didn’t bother to apologize. The wine, the food, the peace…it was all catching up to her now.

“And you’re here,” she added, almost in a whisper, like it hadn’t meant to come out at all. She let out a little sigh and blinked slowly, then murmured, “I’m tired…”

I smirked. “Well, I think Megan’s plan to get us drunk worked to perfection.”

Her mouth curved lazily. “Almost.”

Blanche stretched a little in her seat, then tilted her head back, letting it rest against the chair. Her eyes closed for a beat…then another.

Her hand, still holding her empty glass, tipped toward the table. I caught it before it fell.

A moment later, she was asleep.

I just looked at her for a while.

Gods, she was beautiful, so much more than I’d let myself take in the first time around. It wasn’t just her physical beauty—it was more than that. In how she moved, how she talked, how her soft, sweet presence filled a room.

She’d dropped into my life like a red leaf caught in the wind, out of season but impossible to ignore. And yet somehow our pasts felt fated. Hers by the sea, mine in these woods. The hush of the Hollow felt like a spell tonight. Like we were both being pulled by some cosmic thread neither of us could see, drawn to the same silent truth.

I stood and quietly grabbed one of May’s quilts from the old wooden chest by the fireplace—soft wool, forest green with flecks of burgundy stitched like falling petals. I draped it gently over her body, careful not to disturb her.