Beast (Norseton Wolves #1) (4 page)

Dryer sheets?
“What?”

She stopped. Spun. “You know, dryer sheets. The things you put in the dryer to get the static out your clothes. Can’t put anything on a clothesline out here. It’s too dusty, and there’s nowhere in the house I can set up a drying rack.” She shrugged. “Have to use the dryer.”

“I’ll need to buy some, I guess.”

“How is it that you don’t know about dryer sheets? Who usually does your laundry?”

He cringed. There really was no good answer to that question—at least, not one that would cast him in a good light. “I do.” Sometimes Auntie came over and started a load, but up until recently, they were all on the road, and they’d wash their clothes at whatever Laundromat was nearby. He
did
know how. “And you don’t have to do my laundry. I’ll get around to it.”
Someday
.

“How long has it been since you’ve washed those pants?”

“My pants?” He looked down at them.
Who keeps track of that kind of thing?
He just put on whatever looked clean enough, and pitched them into a pile when they got too much dirt on them. “I don’t know.”

“You’ve got mud all around the bottoms. Take ’em off.”

It was as if she wasn’t making good sense, given that he didn’t know how to respond, or even if he should.

“Anton, take them
off
. I’m washing a colored load.” She held out her hand and made a
gimme
gesture. “The shirt you had on last night, too.”

Grumbling, he unbuttoned, unzipped, disrobed, and handed her the items.

She went off in an indignant huff.

“You don’t have to do my laundry,” he said for what seemed like the umpteenth time. Maybe if he kept saying it enough, she’d eventually believe it. “Or cook for me. Or clean stuff. I’m a grown man, and I can do all those things.”

“Doesn’t seem like you’re doing a very good job of them.”

His mouth flapped open for a few beats, but as no retort came forth, he closed it and headed into his bedroom for new pants. Fuck waiting for Adam to come by and yell at him. Anton would cut him off at the pass and make sure he spoke his mind
first
.
What the hell had the man been thinking?

Probably that Anton needed a keeper. Well, maybe he did, just not
this
one.

Christina wasn’t a fan of guns in general, but she’d had no choice but to learn to be comfortable around them. Her brothers kept chests full of rifles and shotguns they used for sport and hunting when in their human forms. She could even shoot one if she had to, but preferred to admire them from a distance.

A
great
distance.

The sound of them going off in close quarters always stoked her anxiety to unmanageable levels. She’d make a damned skittish wolf, she knew, but she couldn’t be anything but what she was. Anton would have to take her or leave her.

Well, no, not
leave
her, which she suspected he fully intended to do, but she simply wasn’t going to let him. He had yet to give her one good reason why he couldn’t mark her, and she was starting to think that he didn’t have one. So, she’d just keep on as she was. She refused to go back to that place, and she wasn’t giving up her mate to some other bitch. For the first time in her life, she was actually willing to fight over something, and what better thing than Anton?

Picking up a gun to clean seemed the next logical component of the day’s chores. There was a whole shelf of them just waiting for some attention. More things for Anton to
eventually
get around to.

He’d pulled on some clothes and gone storming out of the house as she loaded the washer. She’d heard yelling coming from the general direction of Alpha’s house, but she didn’t bother to get up and look. She had too much to do to concern herself with her wolf’s temper tantrum.

She had just finished putting the last screw back into a .50 caliber rifle—what on
Earth
did they need a gun of that gauge for?—when Anton threw the front door open.

What she could see of his face that wasn’t covered by his eye patch or his hair was flushed, and his mouth was drawn into a frightening grimace.

She set down the screwdriver and placed the gun on the coffee table.

“What are you doing?” His voice was a restrained growl.

“I just cleaned it. I know how.”

He stood there staring for a minute. His accusatory gaze went from her to the gun and then back to her.

“I used to clean my brothers’ all the time. They didn’t have guns like this, but most guns are easy enough to figure out if you’ve handled a few different types.”

“There’s nothing easy to figure out about that particular rifle. That’s why it’s been sitting on that shelf for three weeks.”

He didn’t believe her. Of
course
he didn’t believe her. No one ever did.

She pressed her lips tight and took in a deep breath through her nose. She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t going to go hide in some dusty corner like an Appalachian Cinderella and let her hurt feelings escape through her teardrops. She was tired of being pathetic, and if he didn’t believe her, she’d make him.

She stuck out her chin and crossed her arms over her chest. The posture felt foolish, but it seemed like the right thing to do. “Check it, if you’d like.”

“Yeah?”

After a moment, he walked over and picked it up. He sat with it and the tools at the kitchen table, moving all of the piled-up junk out of the way. And she stood there watching him disassemble it, check all the parts—scrutinizing them with his good eye—and put it back together.

“Well?” She tapped her foot against the floor impatiently, awaiting the critique of her work.

“You did good.”

She stopped tapping and unclenched her fists. “Excuse me?”

“You did
good
, little wolf. You’ve just got to use the right size screwdriver so you don’t strip the screw heads.”

“Oh.” She wrung her hands, shifting her weight. “I’m so used to—to using whatever is handy.”

“Understandable.” He pushed back from the table and carried the gun to its empty case in the living room.

“I—I can fix other stuff, too.”
Try a little harder to not sound like an idiot, why don’t you?

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Cars, a little. Household stuff, too. I didn’t have much of a choice growing up. I was the smallest, and I used to have to crawl into or under things and figure out why they weren’t working.”

He stood and turned to her, pushing his hair back from his eye. He didn’t say anything, just stared. That whole,
man of few words
thing. She certainly understood it. She’d never known a male wolf who’d been much for talking.

She swallowed and started for the fridge, knowing there wasn’t much in it. “Um—we need to go to the store. Can’t survive on frozen steaks.” She hadn’t had enough money to do any real shopping earlier. She would have spent every dollar to her name if she had any idea of what he liked, though. He’d claimed he wasn’t picky, so she was going to test that statement.

“It’s all I know how to cook. I just put them under the broiler.”

“I’ll go.”

Another long stare, followed by more silence. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He just held it out to her without opening it.

“Okay.”

Clutching his wallet, she walked to the front door and stepped into her shoes.

“I could get one of the guys to drive you.”

“Don’t bother. I won’t be carrying more than two bags, probably. It’ll be nice to have a store in walking distance. Won’t waste half a day going and coming.”

“Other kinds of stores are there, too, if you need anything.”

“I’m fine.” She pressed her lips together, knowing it was a lie, and knowing that
he
knew it was a lie. She just didn’t want him to think that she couldn’t make do. Or that she was weak.

Beyond working his jaw side to side for a few beats, he didn’t respond.

“I’ll be right back, then.”

He just watched her leave. Knowing her luck, he’d change the locks while she was gone. Too bad for him, if he did. She knew how to pick them.

Adam had put his foot down, adamant that Christina wouldn’t be sent away, and he’d given Anton two choices: deal with it, or get the fuck out.

A male wolf without a pack was a dead wolf. He could always try to integrate into some other group that was short on muscle, but he appreciated the balance of his current one. They were his family, and—like them or not—on most days, they watched his fucking back. They may have teased and taunted after he’d gotten mauled, but when they were all in the thick, they fought, even killed, for Anton. He didn’t want to give up his pack for a woman, but he also didn’t want to take the woman, either.

All he could do was hope that she’d get tired of him soon and leave on her own. He’d said as much before leaving Adam’s house, and Auntie had laughed and laughed.

He harrumphed and yanked up the overflowing bag from the trashcan.

Christina pushed in the screen door at that moment and carried two canvas grocery totes into the house. “I love that place. They’ve got everything!” she said, eyes bright and wearing a beaming smile that could have lit up the night sky. “I’ve never seen anyplace like it, with all of the gourmet stuff and whatnot. Kind of expensive, though.” She set the bags on the counter.

“Community owned and operated,” he said. “Gotta pay a premium to get commodities way out here. Everyone who lives in Norseton is in on the secret, so they’ve got to have their own stuff. Most folks are okay with paying a little extra instead of driving an hour to someplace else to shop.”

“Well, I did my best not to spend you into the poorhouse.”

“Don’t worry about that.” He wasn’t exactly swimming in cash, but he could certainly afford groceries. Mostly, he ate on the run on the way back from jobs or before his security shifts over in Norseton. Sometimes, if he and Auntie were working at the same time, she’d walk some food out to him.

“Okay. Well—oh!” She reached into one of the bags and drew out his wallet. “There you go. Don’t worry, I didn’t memorize your Social Security number or anything.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

“Why not? Testing me?”

“No. Honestly, it just didn’t cross my mind. Am I wrong to assume you’re trustworthy?”

“No. I’m just—used to being called a liar.”

He tucked the wallet into his pants, and she went to work putting things away. Ingredient-type things he wouldn’t even know what to do with. Flour and shortening—
what was that even for?
—various seasonings, oatmeal, eggs, and so on. He did okay with steaks, but beyond that, his expertise in the kitchen ended at pouring boiling water into instant noodle cups. Best he could tell, there were no noodle cups in those bags.

He left her be and headed into the living room, grabbing another dirty gun off the shelf as he went.

“Gonna make something fast tonight. Full moon. I figured you’d want to get out and run.”

He sat on the couch and pulled his cleaning tools closer. “It’s not necessary. We don’t always feel the drive to shift for the moon.”

“You don’t?”

He could just barely see her furrowed brow from his position. She was so damned short that when he was sitting, the kitchen counter covered up three quarters of her.

“What kind of wolves are y’all?” she asked.

“Eurasian. We shift as necessary.”

“Pure?”

“More or less.”

“They didn’t ask for that—in the mate call, I mean.”

“No, Adam wouldn’t have asked for that. It doesn’t matter to us. A wolf is a wolf.”

“If you start mixing, things get unpredictable. For the kids, I mean.”

“That bothers you?”

She opened a cabinet, rustled something within it, and closed it. “No. Figured it would bother
you
.”

“Whether or not my pups will be compelled to shift for the full moon is amongst the least of my worries.”

“But, you do want kids?”

“I honestly haven’t given it a whole hell of a lot of thought, Christina. My kind, we don’t even think about taking mates until we’ve got a home base—a den, I guess. We weren’t in that position until recently. I imagine you want some?”

“The idea of them scares me, but yes.”

“Scares you? Why?”

“The little boys where I’m from, well, they’re…” Christina let the words trail off. Water gushed in the sink, and then a pot hit the stove burner.

He set down the gun. “They’re what, little wolf?”

“They’re just
awful
, and you can’t tell them any better because that’s how their daddies want them. I always hoped that if I had to stay there, I’d only have girls. Of course, you can’t control that sort of thing.”

The stove burner clicked repeatedly before the pilot light caught the gas.

He stood and walked over to the island, leaning his forearms against the counter. Her back was turned, and she stared down into the pot.

“There are other packs,” he said. “City packs. Rural packs. Everything in between. They all run a little differently. You could have held out for any one of them. You can usually tell who’s putting out the call if it’s coming from a big group. I don’t know why you jumped at the opportunity for this one. I can’t imagine you’ll be happy here.”
With me.

“You must think I’m ambitious.”

“I think you can recognize opportunity.”

Her nod came slowly. “I guess I can.” She turned, but didn’t meet his gaze. “I took a chance, knowing I wasn’t going to anyplace worse than I already was. So, if that makes me an opportunist, so be it.”

“You deserve better than
not worse
.”

Now she did look up.

“Much more than that, and I’m sorry you didn’t get it. Adam says I can’t send you away, but that doesn’t mean I have to bite you.”

“You just want me living here, like a roommate?”

“It’s the best I can offer you.”

“No, it’s not. There’s nothing wrong with your teeth, is there?”

“My teeth are just fine, in both of my forms.”

“So you’re opposed to marriage, then.”

“I’m not opposed to marriage. I would have just preferred to be saddled with some bitch that deserved defective goods. Then I wouldn’t feel so fucking guilty.”

If she was trying to look stern and severe with those narrowed eyes and that adorable pout, she wasn’t doing a very good job of it. He couldn’t help it. He laughed. “If intimidating me is your goal, you might try standing on a chair.”

She flicked the dishtowel at him and walked to the canvas bags, grumbling about stubborn wolves.

Surely, she counted herself in that plural.

“I’m making spaghetti. If you insist on standing there teasing me for being inadequate, at least be useful while you’re doing it.”

“You’re not inadequate, and what do you want me to do, little wolf?” This time, he suppressed the laugh, but barely.

She stabbed her index finger toward the cutting board. “Chop that onion for the sauce. Since you’re so tall and whatnot, maybe it won’t even make you cry.”

“I bet you’d like to make me cry.”

“You’d think I would,” she said softly, and peeled back the tape on the butcher paper-wrapped tube of meat she held. “But I don’t.”