Fear the Heart (Werelock Evolution Book 2) (28 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“So … Alessandra said … that you’ve … umm … been buying up … uh … my whole block … back in Santa Cruz. Is that … true?”

He squinted at me in consternation for almost a solid two minutes before muttering, “Really? You insisted on coming all the way down here to ask me that?” His eyes searched the cellar’s arched ceiling beams above with what seemed to be disbelief. Or annoyance.

He downed the remains of his wine glass before inquiring, “And Lessa? Lessa disobeyed a direct order and allowed you to disturb me merely to ask that?”

I shifted uneasily on my feet. “Um … sort of … yeah?”

He blew out a weighty lungful of air as he leaned forward on the wine barrel he was seated upon. He seemed to forget—or maybe he chose to ignore—my presence for a spell as he arose to his feet and crossed to a nearby table laden with more than a dozen bottles of red wine, and just as many, if not more, wine glasses. Several bottles were open, some were already empty, and many were still corked.

“Well, I doubt that five lots equates to an entire block, really,” he pondered aloud, his back to me. “Lessa has a tendency to exaggerate. Is that all you wanted to know?”

“So it’s true? You
are
buying up real estate in my neighborhood?”

He didn’t bother to answer at first as he busied himself uncorking a fresh bottle of wine. “Not sure why that should come as such a surprise to you,” he finally commented while pouring himself a sizeable glass.

I couldn’t help the tears that rimmed my eyes as I stammered in wonderment, more to myself than to Alex, “So you … you really are … actually … letting me go home to Santa Cruz?”

When he turned to face me, his brow creased sharply at the sight of my tears. “Good God, what are you crying for now?” he complained. “I thought you liked Santa Cruz? Fuck, is there nothing I can ever say or do that won’t make you cry?”

“No. Yes! I mean—I
do!
It’s my only home and I
do
love Santa Cruz. More than anywhere! I just … this … none of this makes sense …”

“What? What doesn’t make sense?” He sounded tired. Cross.

I realized Alex’s legendary temper was far, far closer to the surface than I’d initially gauged when I’d embarked on my dark, creepy journey down into the farthest depths of the basement to seek him out despite Alessandra’s dire forewarnings and laundry list of cautionary advice.

“You …”—I wrung my hands together—“me. You buying property in my neighborhood in Santa Cruz. I mean … why?”

“Why not?”

“Because”—I shrugged—“I’m your prisoner, and—”

“
Ha!”
I nearly jumped a foot back at his abrupt shout of mocking laughter. “My prisoner?” He raised a disbelieving brow. “Little girl, you must be blind. Surely, it’s obvious by now that I am your prisoner?”

He only laughed harder when I shook my head in denial of his words.

“Oh, yes, princess,” he clucked. “Rest assured, everything I do and every decision I make revolves around you now.”

I continued shaking my head.

“No? You don’t think so? Well, I’ll have you know that just today I acquired an especially dumpy old house in Santa Cruz at a most absurd markup, because it happens to be the one right next door to yours and the owner didn’t want to sell.”

“You bought the McMurrays’ house at a premium? Oh, my God, they’ve lived in that old house forever!”
And done nothing during that entire time to maintain it.
“Why would you do that?”

He regarded me as if I were batty. “Because you persist in saying you want to live in Santa Cruz. You literally just said it again not a moment ago.”

“Yes, but Alex, you can’t just do that,” I tried to reason the obvious. “You can’t just buy a home that’s not for sale because it’s next door to mine.”

He seemed perplexed. “Obviously, I can. I’ve done it. I also bought your neighbor’s house on the opposite side. By tomorrow I’ll have closed on the one directly across the street.”

“So
wha
—what then?” I sputtered. “You’re just going to buy out every one of my neighbors and relocate your pack to Santa Cruz? Alex, that’s … that’s stalker behavior is what that is.”

“No, it’s not. I’ve no intention of creeping around or lurking in the shadows spying on you, Milena. I’m telling you outright here and now that I plan to move with you back to Santa Cruz. It just so happens I travel with a bit of an entourage.” He waved an airy hand, before finishing under his breath, “Who will occupy your neighborhood with me and keep watch over you at all times.”

“But that’s exactly stalker behavior! Have you even visited Santa Cruz before? How do you know you’ll even like it there? You can’t just move somewhere for someone you’ve just met. You barely know me!”

“Milena …” He raised his free palm in silent warning, and in the dimly lit cellar the gentle smile that curled his lips somehow managed to make him look even more forbidding as he reminded me, “you tried to make that point once already this evening. As I recall, you failed miserably the first time. Let’s not attempt two for two, as I’ve a mind to do a lot more than finger fuck and spank some sense into you right now.” His eyes raked my form in a manner that both aroused and terrified me.

Perhaps Alessandra was right and Alex was more unpredictable and dangerous than ever in his present state of mind? I stole a step backward, and then another, angling my body in the direction of the steep, uneven staircase I’d descended from.

“I’m sorry. Maybe I … I should go? Sorry …”

His head cocked to the side.
Like a wolf sizing up its prey.

“Why so apologetic, princess?”

“No reason.” I snuck another step toward the staircase.

“Why so nervous? Am I making your nervous?”

“No.”

“You know better than to lie to me.”

“S-sorry—”

“And you know better than to try and flee from me.”

Fuck.
He was using his scary calm voice. It was anything but soothing. If only I’d listened to Alessandra, I could be safe under a blanket, eating cookies and watching episodes of
Avenida Brasil
with Lupe. Instead, I was in a spooky wine dungeon—facing off with Alex’s more sinister side.

“I’m … not. I know … I’m sorry …”

“I’d never hurt you, Milena.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Sure ’bout that?”

I gulped air into my lungs and nodded resolutely. “Yes.”

“Would you care for a drink?” he offered.

“No, thanks.”

“But you’ll have one. Won’t you?”

“Okay … s-sure.”

“Sit.” His eyes motioned to the wine barrel he’d recently vacated. “Your fidgeting is making my wolf anxious.”

I began to apologize, but stopped myself when Alex cast a baleful look over his shoulder at me as he turned to procure my beverage. Cautiously, I idled back over and took a seat on the wine barrel, as instructed.

Watching the smooth, large muscles flex and ripple across Alex’s broad back and shoulders as he poured me a glass of DRC pinot noir somehow did very little to calm my nerves. And when he finally extended a full glass of red wine to me in offering, I could only stare blankly at it.

“Um … I don’t suppose you have any club soda down here?”

“No.”

“Maybe I could just run upstairs to the kitchen—”

“Not with this wine.”

“Okay.” I accepted the glass from his outstretched hand without further argument. I took a brave swig of the sour, fermented drink, but couldn’t avoid pulling a disgusted face in spite of my best effort.

“That is so awful,” I said, holding it back out to him.

He appeared mystified by my response.
Which made no sense, since I was certain my reactions to wine remained consistent.
“That wine is fifty years older than you are,” he told me, as if that fact alone might sell me on the awful taste of it.

“And that’s supposed to entice me to drink it?”

“Mm … Allow me to help you?” He set his own wine down behind him on the table before stepping forward so that he was directly in front of me, his sheer size dwarfing me from my seated position atop the barrel.

His cut abdominals stared me squarely in the face, yet somehow my eyes were immediately drawn downward, along with my nose, to the waistband of his shorts, where the scent of his supreme maleness taunted my inner wolf.

A firm hand engulfed my own around my wineglass as the long, nimble fingers of his opposite hand gently held the side of my face and chin. I’d become instantly hot all over—effortlessly aroused merely from his proximity and smell, so the touch of his fingers on my face and hand were more than enough to set my vaginal walls aflutter with excitement as he guided my nose down to the rim of my glass and advised me to inhale.

“Deeply,” he coached in that rich baritone voice that brooked no refusal. “All the way into your lower belly. Good. Again. And now, again … slower … yes … now hold it. Good. Once more … deep and slow. Just like that … yes …”

I was too overwhelmed and befuddled to question or dispute his directives, and so I sat frozen in place with Alex’s groin inches below my face, his fingers caressing my cheek as I breathed deeply enough to capture the fragrance of seriously old grapes mingled with the faint scent of wood and earth, melded with the musk of fresh arousal—both Alex’s and my own—until the combined aroma grew so potent I swore I could taste it on my tongue.

Until I was so captivated by it I
wanted
to taste it on my tongue.

I didn’t object when eventually Alex tilted my face up and brought the glass to my lips. As our eyes met, he told me to sip. I did. And I held the small sip in my mouth, drowning in the abyss of his black irises above, delighting in the sensation of his fingertips stroking my jawline, as I savored the flavor of the wine on my tongue, just the way he’d instructed me to.

“Now swallow.”

I swallowed. And I didn’t pull a face.

“Better?” he asked, his thumb rubbing traces of wine into my bottom lip.

I allowed Alex to tip the wine glass to my lips several more times, until it was half empty and my head was buzzing, my body sizzling.

I was at once so deliciously relaxed, and yet aflame with desire, that by the time Alex stepped away from me and rather stoically inquired, “Why are you here?” I was helpless to conceal my disappointment at what I took for his imminent dismissal.

“I don’t want to go now,” I all but pouted.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“But you want me to?”

“I want a lot of things, Milena. Let’s start with what you want and why you’re here—in a dark, scary cellar deep in the bowels of the earth, drinking wine with the very monster you were warned to stay away from for the remainder of the night.”

I bit my lip and tasted wine. And Alex. “I don’t know.”

“You’re a pitiful liar.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Is it possible you have another burning question for me about impending real estate transactions or the like that couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

“Um … sort of?”

“Ask.”

Oh, hell, none of my remaining questions were easy ones.
He’d retrieved his own glass of super old wine and was casually leaning with a hand upon the table while imbibing and waiting for me to speak. I knew I should ask about the meeting with Raul and Gabriel, but there was another nagging question at the forefront of my mind.

“Alessandra said that you … ah … that you …
knew
Kai’s mate, Maribel. Before she was Kai’s mate?”

“Yes. I did. Is that the entire question?”

“No.”

“Proceed.”

“Were you … close?”

He pursed his lips. “Are you asking if I
knew
Maribel … in a biblical sense?”

“I … yes. Did you?”

“I did.”

“Like … a lot?”

His lips twitched faintly. “Yes.”

“I meant, did you like it?” I wanted to slap myself. “I mean … did she?” I turned two shades of idiot red. “I mean … did you like … err …
love
her? Did you love her?” I finally force-spat the words out.

He was thoughtful a moment, kinder eyes studying me before answering, “Yes. Very much.”

I nodded like a bobblehead and focused on breathing in and out through the pain suddenly crushing my chest.
In and out.

Fuck, that hurt.
In and out.

When breathing brought neither the relief nor the fortitude I’d hoped for, I guzzled the rest of my wine, then blurted, “So that’s why you hate Kai? For taking Maribel away from you?”

“I don’t hate Kai.”

“You don’t hate him for taking Maribel away from you?”

“He didn’t take Maribel from me. Maribel and I had already parted ways romantically before she and Kai met.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

Huh. Well, that was … better.
Maybe?
“What was she like?”

He shrugged, a sad, nostalgic smile slowly forming on his face. “I suppose she was virtually perfect in every way, really.”

Oh, for the love of God! Seriously?
This was so much worse than hearing it from his sister!

“Was … was she very beautiful?”
I needed to just stop.

“Exceptionally.”

Fuck.
I should’ve stopped. “Smart?”

“Beyond. Most classified her as genius.”

Goddamnit!

“More wine?”

“No, thank you.”

“Humor me?” he appealed. “You’re going to need it.”

“Why?”

He didn’t deign to answer as he pried the empty glass from my bloodless fingers.

“How did she die?” Clearly the wine had loosened my tongue, and obliterated any remnants of tact I’d ever possessed.

Alex’s back was slightly turned to me as he refilled my wine, so when he didn’t answer, I repeated the question, well beyond the point of caring about being considered insensitive or gauche in my quest for intel on the mythically perfect Maribel. But even after he’d returned to me with a fresh glass of pinot, he still hadn’t acknowledged my query, prompting me to press, “Old age?”

“Ask a different question.”

“Was it an accident?”