It might be worth digging into, for his pack’s survival. Whether his pack meant him and Olivia or the rest of Finn’s pack, he wasn’t ready to address. Not yet. For now, he was still tied to Finn. They needed to know Cyrus had a spy, that they were in danger.
Finn wanted the Others off their backs as much as Mal did. They both had something to lose. Finn had his wife and pups and he had…Olivia.
He stared at the sleeping woman, that strange yearning ache tightening his chest.
His wolf growled at him, irritated that he insisted on sitting across the cabin from her. He sat six, maybe seven, feet away, and the wolf was pissed as hell. It wanted him to curl up around her, to ease her—and him.
Mal didn’t like it.
He’d be damned if his wolf told him what to do. They might be one, but he was in charge. And getting attached to her any more than he was already was a bad idea. There was still a chance she’d leave. Yes, he’d first have to teach her how to shift, how to work with her wolf, how to control her instincts. But then? There was no reason for her not to have a somewhat normal life.
His wolf growled again, so agitated Mal felt on edge.
“Chill the fuck out,” he hissed.
But the wolf was ignoring him.
He’d planned on carrying her out of here this morning. The more distance between them and the Others, the better. But she’d been so feverish he couldn’t do it. She had periods of wakefulness, or so he’d thought. He’d learned quickly she was delusional, and the best thing to do was keep his distance.
His wolf had approved of the way she’d clung to him, pleading with him to hold her close. And he’d tried. But she’d been too soft, too sweet. When her fingers slid into his hair, her silky lips latching onto his neck, Mal had wavered. Her touch reminded him of a time before he’d been turned, when things like peace and happiness were still possible.
Too bad he hadn’t met her then.
She was tossing on the makeshift mattress before the fire, soft cries and whimpers ratcheting up his wolf’s anxiety.
Mal sighed, stood, and crossed to her. He crouched at her side, hesitating briefly before placing a hand on her shoulder. She shuddered and stilled. His wolf was satisfied, the smug bastard.
“I didn’t say I didn’t want to be close to her,” he whispered, arguing with his wolf. “I’m saying it would be better for her if we weren’t.”
But as soon as the words were out of his mouth he was lying at her side, tugging her against him, and easing into a deep sleep.
...
Olivia was warm. She burrowed under the blanket, her fingers stretching in the thick fur that covered her. Each silky hair was distinguishable from the next, had its own texture and weight. She sighed, moaning softly.
“How do you feel?” asked a voice she didn’t immediately recognize. It must be Frank, one of her roommates’ boyfriends. He was always on their couch, eating their food. He was nice—just a freeloader.
“Shh, Frank, I’m sleeping,” she said. “Whatever flu meds they gave me—wow, talk about a trip.”
Frank chuckled. “Really?”
“But I’m feeling better,” she said. “Just let me sleep.”
“We need to move,” Frank said, closer now. “If you’re up for it?”
Her dream-guy’s voice. The dream-guy’s scent. Mal. Oh, his scent. She stiffened. “Am I up for it?” she asked, opening one eye.
Mal was sitting beside her, smiling. No one had a right to smell better than fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. But he did. And, she noted with disappointment, he was wearing clothes. Overalls, flannel shirt, and boots. He was the sexiest lumberjack in the world.
Other scents reached her. Cedar, smoke, leather, dust. She wasn’t used to being so scent sensitive, but she was recovering from the flu. They were in a small cabin—rustic was a generous description. But there was a fire going, and she was comfy on the cot, beneath a pile of what looked like animal pelts.
Animals… She felt dizzy, disoriented, and closed her eyes. “How much of what I dreamed was real?” She peered at him, her nerves stretching thin and tight.
“We can talk about that later.” His eyes were surprisingly light brown, almost caramel. It had been hard to tell what color they were in the dark. In the light of day—God, he was absolutely gorgeous. “Let’s go.”
“No.” She jumped up. Did she want to go? Not really, but apparently, he did. She froze then, looking down at her leg. “Holy crap.” Her jeans were shredded and crusted with dried blood. Her hoodie was stained, too. She bent over, pulling the denim aside, remembering. An oblong cut—the knife. Some crisscross scratches and a few deep gouges—the bear. And two perfect punctures… She reached around the back of her thigh: two more. A bite.
This was real?