Lycan on the Edge: Broken Heart Book 13 (3 page)

“Virginia! Are you suggesting I shower with

this woman?”

“Trent, you devil!” Nana slapped her thigh and

hooted.

Sophie whirled around, her cheeks heated and

flushed.

Trent’s mouth quirked up at the corners,

amusement dancing in his brown eyes. He raised

his brows. “If it means keeping my job, I’ll suffer

through it,” he said sadly.

Sophie fumed at the pitiful look he sent her. It

was laced with just enough lasciviousness to make

her want to poke out his eyes. Their laughter sent

her scurrying to the back of the house. She trudged

up the three steps and opened the screen door. She

plopped down on the floor of the enclosed porch

and began to take off her dirty socks and shoes.

She managed to get her left foot free, but the right

shoe had a lace full of knots.

Something about Trent bothered her. He was

too handsome, she decided. And he had an

irritating dimple near the right corner of his mouth.

Stop thinking about his mouth.

The door screeched, and Sophie looked up.

Trent entered, his muscled torso gleaming with

sweat and dirt, looking like one of those body

spray commercial models. And she knew up close

and personal-like how really good he smelled

without any help from some aerosolized cologne.

She tore her gaze from the view and concentrated

on the knot in the tennis shoe strings.

“Need help?”

The low sound of his voice skimmed up over

her and ignited a spark in her belly. Startled at her

strong reaction, Sophie snapped, “No thanks.”

He tilted his head. “I’m sorry I saw your

panties.”

“You saw my—oh, crap,” she said, gripping

her slimy shoe strings, “I don’t want to discuss my

underwear.”

“Red’s my favorite color.”

Sophie pretended not to hear him.

“I saw the scar on your back, too.”

Sophie stilled. She didn’t like talking about the

scar with anyone—not even Nana. She blew out a

breath. “I’d rather talk about my amazing red

panties.”

“I recognize that kind of wound,” he said

gently. “Where did the Alberich find you?”

“Who says they did?”

“Your scar.”

Fuck this. She used werewolf strength to shred

the stubborn lace and whipped off her shoe and

sock. She dumped them into a pile and stood up.

“Don’t plan on sticking around,” she said. “We

don’t need your help.”

Sophie rotated on her heel, her bare feet

prickled by the uneven floor, and headed for the

door that led into the house—and away from Trent.

“Sophie.”

The apology in his voice stalled her. Her hand

clenched the old metal handle as she looked over

her shoulder. “What?”

“I have one, too.” He turned around, and she

saw the all too familiar mark left by an Alberich’s

weapon—a long thick scar flared at both ends.

She’d never met anyone else who’d survived

an Alberich attack. Mostly because the creatures

were thought to be extinct and no longer a threat to

werewolves. But one had found her in the Oregon

forest. The encounter had changed her life, and put

Broken Heart on high alert. For Trent to have the

same scar meant he had fought them more than

century ago.

Trent turned to face her, his gaze sympathetic.

“We’re lucky.”

“You have a weird concept of ‘lucky.’” Tears

threatening, Sophie hurried into the house—trying

to run from the surfacing emotions, and the past that

never seemed far enough behind.

CHAPTER TWO

THE NEXT DAY at noon, Sophie cornered Nana

in the kitchen. Leaning against the blue-tiled

counter, she watched her grandmother stir the

sizzling contents in the wok. She wore a blue shirt

with long sleeves, a color that looked great against

her pale skin, and pair of dark slacks. The older

woman had short, permed silvery-gray hair and the

darkest-brown eyes Sophie had ever encountered.

Not like her own amber-brown or the soft brown

of Trent’s eyes.

Speaking of...
“Are you gonna stick with the

story that Trent is a handyman?” she asked.

“He’s handy, and he’s a man. So, yes,”

responded Nana. “I’m sticking with my story.”

“Right. And he just happens to be a survivor of

an Alberich attack.”

“He is? Looks like you two have something in

common. Maybe you can compare notes.”

“Nana.” She put her hand on her grandmother’s

thin arm, stopping her from stirring the cooking

veggies. “I’m fine.”

Nana put the spatula on the spoon rest. She

turned and took Sophie’s hands. “You’re not fine.

You still have nightmares. You’re jumpy and

paranoid. You avoid contact with others. And

you’re in pain, physical and emotional.”

She couldn’t deny her grandmother’s words.

Night after night, the horrid memories morphed

into worse dreams. Nana would wake her and then

console her. Sometimes, Nana settled down next to

Sophie and softly sang until she fell asleep. It

shamed her to know that her fear had turned her

into the grieving child she’d once been. After

Sophie’s parents had died, Nana had taken in her

emotionally wounded five-year-old grandchild and

then loved her so unconditionally that Sophie had

finally healed. She became a herbalist like her

Nana. Her trip to Oregon had been to collect

Oregon grape and other plants to create tinctures,

teas, and topical ointments for her and Nana’s

online herbal store.

That awful, fateful night, she’d camped deep in

the woods, enjoying nature from both wolf and

woman perspectives.

Then the Alberich found her.

And nearly killed her.

Crafted from pure silver and coated with

wolfsbane, the Alberich weapon had been

designed to cause the most damage and suffering

possible before death. She’d survived, and mostly

healed, but the scar on her back would never go

away. As for the emotional trauma, she’d tried

counseling. Talking about the attack didn’t help.

Each retelling of the event only made her feel more

vulnerable, weak and angry.

Nana placed a soft kiss on Sophie’s forehead,

and then returned to cooking.

Sophie leaned a hip against the counter and

watched her grandmother stir green peppers with

slices of summer squash, cubes of chicken, and a

healthy dose of soy sauce. Nana tossed in

mushrooms and onions.

“Since when do we own a wok?” asked

Sophie. Realization dawned. “You’ve been

watching the shopping network again, haven’t

you?”

“It’s that damned Hubert Larson. He could sell

sunglasses to a blind man.”

“You are so in love with him,” teased Sophie.

“Is it his shellacked hair? Or maybe the way he

wears his trousers too high?”

“Don’t make fun of my TV boyfriend.” Nana

shooed her away. “Why don’t you see if Trent has

arrived with his things? Ask if he’s hungry. I’m

making plenty.”

“He’s moving into the garage apartment

today?”

“Why not?”

Sophie opened her mouth to respond, but her

excellent hearing picked up the sound of car tires

crunching on the gravel drive. Trent. The werewolf

made her feel antsy...nervous...vulnerable. Okay, if

she were a teensy bit honest with herself, she’d

admit her unease had to do with the way her pulse

jumped when she thought about him. And he’d

survived the Alberich, too. She wanted to ask him

about his encounter, but that meant she had to open

up about her own experience and trauma, and she

wasn’t going to do that.

The doorbell rang.

Sophie left the kitchen, taking reluctant steps

toward the front door.

The doorbell rang again.

Her heart tripped over itself.

To catch the warm spring breeze, the front door

had been propped open. Trent waited on the other

side of the screen door, a duffel bag in his right

hand. Wow. He looked good. The man was

gorgeous enough to have her licking her chops.

“Hello,” he greeted as she pushed the door

open. He stepped inside, his chest brushing against

hers as he angled through sideways. Sensations

fluttered through her. Sophie drew a deep breath,

and she saw Trent’s nostrils flare. Great. She was

probably putting out all kinds of sex pheromones.

She might as well wear a sign that said, “Do me.”

“How’s it hanging?” he asked.

“Ha. Ha.” Sophie let go of the metal handle,

and the door banged shut behind Trent. She folded

her arms over her chest and glared at him.

His half-smile slid into a grin. He held up his

bag. “Where to?”

“Follow me.” Sophie led him down the

hallway and into the kitchen. Nana had

disappeared, and the contents of the wok were now

in a green bowl shaped like a fish.

“That smells...interesting,” said Trent.

“Nana is an experimental cook. Considered

yourself warned.”

They entered the screened porch, and Sophie

opened the back door, jumping over the three

concrete steps. She heard Trent’s sneakers

squeaking through the dewy grass as she led him

across the yard.

Sophie and Trent reached the detached garage

and climbed the rickety wood staircase attached to

the outside. The door protested its opening with a

loud screech. Sophie went inside, flipping on the

light switch next to the door.

When had Nana cleaned up the place? The

simple furnishings sparkled and glimmered. A bed,

dresser, and desk made up the front area. In back

was a small utilitarian kitchen. Sophie pointed to

another door. “That’s the bathroom. Your closet is

over there.”

Trent placed the bag on the bed and turned to

face her. He crossed his arms, and the muscles

bunched nicely. The man was built. Whew. His

knowing smile made her squirmy, so she turned

and checked the dresser for dust. He went to the

bed and unzipped the duffel bag. She watched him

take out folded T-shirts and jeans. A pair of high

tops. A leather-bound journal. Already familiar—

too familiar—with his front, Sophie felt compelled

to check out his backside one more time. After all,

she wanted to have a balanced view. It was only

fair.

His brownish hair, slightly long, looked silky,

soft. The muscles in his back moved under his tight

white shirt. Sophie’s gaze dropped lower. His

jeans fit perfectly around his rear end and the

material molded to his muscular thighs.

He straightened swiftly and looked at her. Heat

rose in her face when his lips curved upward. His

expression said,
Like what you see? There’s more.

She swallowed her embarrassment, feeling like

she’d been caught peeping at him naked through a

window. She hugged herself and stepped

backward.

“Why do I make you nervous?”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Hmm. You don’t trust your instincts.” He

nodded, his gaze empathetic. “I felt that way, too.

Werewolves rely heavily on their senses. We don’t

expect them to fail us.”

She wanted badly to ask about what happened

to him, and how he recovered, but the words

wouldn’t form. No one knew the whole truth about

her experience. In a strange way, she felt her story,

her pain, belonged to her. She owed no one an