Page 27 of Fat Enemy Mate

“They should hold until we can get to you,” Nick says. “There was a landslide on the quarry road, but it’s almost clear—maybe a day's work, but we’ll keep you posted. Connor, get Thomas and Bryan on the next patrol. Pull in Ethan if you need to. I want the western trail swept immediately.”

“Already on it,” Connor replies, and I have no doubt.

“Wilf, we’re bringing you both in,” Nick says, “tell the girl we’ll figure this out. She’s safe. Or at least, she will be.”

“I’ll try, but she’s not keen on shifters,” I say, wondering if that has changed at all after last night, or if taking advantage of her will have made things worse. Is that what I did? I shake the thought off, replying, “We’ll be ready.”

“Ok, and Wilf?” Nick says, pausing. “Don’t sit on this stuff yourself, you hear me? We’re pack. We’re in this together.”

I want to agree, and I know what he’s saying. But deep down, I feel like I’m in this with Lara and that I know going to town isn’t going to be what she wants, and my damn wolf just wants to hold onto her for a bit longer. Like he’s trying to figure her out before everyone else gets to. Maybe it is the lottery messing with me, after all.

“Understood,” I say, because that’s what’s expected, but my wolf still grumbles.

“I’ll update after the patrols get in,” Connor says before signing off.

I hang up and set the phone down on the table, letting out a breath I didn’t know I was even holding. The shower is off now, and I can’t help wondering if Lara caught any of that conversation. I know I can’t hide this from her, but for some reason, I wish I could. She’s scared, and she’s human—two things I’m not sure I’m equipped to handle.

I put the coffee back on and wait, wondering which Lara I’ll get. The young woman who carries a knife and hates all shifters, or the one who came apart in my arms last night, who kissed me like she meant it and took my cock like she was made for me.

Chapter 14 - Lara

I stand under the running water for a long time.

I don’t mean to stay so long. I meant to get in and out, and back into my clothes before I had too long to think about everything. But my body had other ideas. I’m feeling things I’ve never felt before—I’m sore in places I didn’t know could feel anything, an ache low in my stomach that isn’t painful, but I feel its presence. My neck and collarbone are littered with evidence of his attention, and the hot water is the only thing that soothes my aching muscles. I let the water run down over my head and down my back, and try very hard not to think too deeply.

I try not to think about the way he picked me up in the kitchen, the way he carried me through the cabin like I weighed nothing. I try not to think of him on his knees between my thighs, telling me to look at him. I try not to think about the way he felt pushing inside me, or the desperate noises I made that should embarrass me, but don’t. I try not to think about how he came inside me after I begged him to.

I think about it all anyway, replaying the scenes over and over.

When I finally turn the water off and step out, my skin has more color than it has in weeks, and when I look in the mirror, I can’t deny that the woman staring back looks as though she’s been well fucked. There’s no other way to put it.

I dry myself off and pull on the clean sweats I dried overnight, along with a clean t-shirt that I knot at the side as it’s so oversized. I ignore the way my hands are shaking a little as I finger-comb my damp hair before I take a long breath and check my reflection one last time, unsure what I’m actually looking for.

I find Wilf in the kitchen. He’s got his back to me as I walk in. He’s at the counter holding a cup of coffee and turns as I walk in. He has a look on his face that suggests he’s been bracing for this moment, but he tries to hide it, and immediately, I’m struck by the thought he might regret what we did.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” I reply, suddenly unsure about how this is going to play out.

He pours me a coffee and sets it down on the island. He doesn’t reach for me; he doesn’t touch me. I’m not sure what I was expecting, really. He doesn’t owe me anything, and I’m not so naïve that I don’t know men just like having sex. Last night probably didn’t mean anything to him at all, but my body stupidly seems to miss the contact it got used to last night.

I take the coffee and sit down at the stool, deliberately taking a long sip so I can avoid looking directly at him.

“You alright?” He asks.

“Sore,” I tell him before I think better of it, “a bit sore, but fine. I mean, it was fine.”

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and the look on his face seems genuine.

“Don’t be,” I reply, a little too quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that. It really was fine.”

He laughs. “Lara, it was a lot more than fine,” he tells me.

I look at him and don’t know what to say to that. He’s looking at me in that level-headed way he has, but with the flicker of a smile on his lips, which disappears almost as soon as I notice it. His eyes shift to the side as a flurry of messages comes through on his phone, and I notice the way he checks it quickly before tossing it back on the counter.

“What is it?” I ask him.

“What’s what?” He replies absentmindedly.