Page 46 of Hungry Like the Wolf

She was so fucked.

She had to get out of here. Not forever. Not even for the night. Just to feed. She’d go to the nearest town and find some internet. Or even simply some cell service. Hell, she’d call Geoff through the app and tell him that she’d call him every single degrading thing he’d ever fantasized about if he’d drop everything, including his pants, and help her out. Maybe he’d find desperation sexy?

Either way, there was no way that she could have a conversation with Robbie about anything, let alone what had just happened on either side of the door—hell, in the open door when he’d sucked on her fingers and—no. No. No. No. She’d never get through it.

But if she could feed, if she could build up her reserves, even to the most basic of levels, she could sit across the table from him and calmly tell him that while she appreciated his selflessness, it could never happen again. They could never happen. This was an arrangement. Nothing more.

And maybe, maybe, with more energy and strength in her system, she’d be able to sound convincing when she said it.

She dressed with shaking hands. There had been multiple clothing items in that trash bag for her, but she found herself pulling on a pair of sweatpants that Robbie sometimes wore to sleep, though he always kicked them off within the first hour in bed, and a hoodie that also happened to be his. She wasn’t going to think about that right now. Not ever.

She slipped into her shoes, grabbed her phone, and walked quickly toward the main building. A wave of nausea had her clutching at a tree next to the path, breathing deeply through her nose, her knees shaking.

But she couldn’t stop.

She made it to Robbie’s small SUV, thanking the universe that the keys were in the cupholder, where JJ said they needed to stay.

It was so easy. She hadn’t met a single soul on the path, and nobody stopped her from driving away from the commune. She hadn’t seen anyone to ask a single question. Maybe her luck was changing. She’d be gone two, three hours tops. She’d feed. Maybe she’d feed twice if she were lucky. And then she’d come back before anyone even knew she was gone.

Nadja’s vision started to go spotty as she pulled onto the main road.

No, no, no! Not now. Keep it together just a little longer!

But after five miles, she was forced to admit that she’d never make it. Not without wrecking the car. Her vision was coming and going, her heart fluttering weakly in her chest.

She pulled the car onto the shoulder and rested her forehead against the steering wheel. Hot tears surged forth, falling in scalding streams down her cheeks as she wept, hunger gnawing at her body like a dog with a bone, weakness like she’d never known threatening to overcome her completely.

It was the end of the road.

CHAPTER 22

Robbie was in the industrial kitchen chopping onions to make jambalaya for the pack. His eyes teared up, and he was reminded of a line cook he’d worked with years before whose mother had bought him a pair of the goggles that were supposed to keep your eyes from watering. He wore them to work as a joke one day until they fell off his face and into the deep fryer and they had to toss all the grease because people love garlic truffle fries with a dusting of flaky sea salt, not microplastics.

Robbie knew his eyes were red and wet, and that if anyone saw him out of context, they would think something horrible had just happened. But no. His eyes always did this. Red onions? Tears. Yellow onions? Tears. Sweet “vah-dail-yuh” onions, as his mama called them? Tears. There had even been one shallot that had taken him down. Bowl of water on the cutting board, wet paper towel on the cutting board, sunglasses, regular glasses, Vaseline on his undereyes—nothing worked.

And so, he chopped them as fast as he could to be done with it, no doubt looking like he’d just put his dog down, when Rose walked in.

“Where was your mate headed?”

It took him a beat to register the question, long enough that Rose arched an eyebrow at him.

“Nowhere that I know of. You sure it was Nadja?”

“Pale, frail little thing? Dragged your sorry carcass in last week?”

Shit.

“Was she walking?”

Maybe she was feeling better. The thought was so exciting that his heart began to race a little. He had come all over his hand long before he’d planned to because what had happened behind the door, against the door. And then after, when he’d sucked on her fingers, had been the single most mind-obliteratingly sexy thing to ever happen to him. Her little whimpers, the slick sounds from behind the door, and then the taste of her. Fucking hell, the taste of her. Sharp and somehow sweet and utterly her. He’d had to take a cold shower just to get his erection—which had sprung immediately back to life—to calm down enough that he could walk to the mess hall without sporting a tent in his shorts.

“No, she was driving. Your car, I think. Off the property.”

Robbie carefully set the big chef’s knife down and wiped his eyes with the hem of his T-shirt. But even the cotton wasn’t enough of a barrier, and they began to sting even more.

“Fuck!”

He crossed to the utility sink and, with his eyes squeezed tightly shut against the sting, fumbled for the soap dispenser and turned on the tap. He managed to find the paper towel dispenser as well and ran one under the cold water before pressing it to his eyes. Water was running down his forearms, but he didn’t care.