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I probably will.

My boots crunch faintly over gritty wood floors as I follow him in. He’s moving slow, cautious, giving me side-eyes like I might sprout fangs and lunge. Smart boy. But not smart enough to keep his back to the wall.

I let my eyes drag over him like I’m starving. Because I am. His shoulders flex with every step he takes. His back tapers down to a narrow waist, and those sweats hang criminally low on his hips. Low enough I can see the top of the deep V that leads to every filthy thing I’m thinking of doing to him once he’s cuffed to a bed and breathing heavy in my sheets.

His hair’s longer than I expected up close. Messy, like he shoved a hand through it instead of brushing it. I already want to pull it while I ride his face. There’s a scar on his side I didn’t know about, long and clean, probably a blade. I want to trace it with my tongue.

But more than anything, I want to fix him.

This place is rugged, yes, but it’s not enough. Not safe enough. Too exposed. Too open. If someone wanted him, really wanted him, they could take him.

Like I am.

I let out a soft sigh, voice all trembling sweetness. “You’ve really made this work, haven’t you?”

He looks over his shoulder, brow furrowed. “I’ve done all right.”

“You deserve better,” I say.

He turns, and for a moment, we’re face to face. That stubble, that mouth, those fucking intense eyes boring into me like he’s trying to figure out which category I fall into, helpless or dangerous.

Spoiler alert: it’s both.

“I’ve got something to help with the stress,” I say softly, like I’m offering a Tylenol.

Then my hand moves fast, faster than he expects, and the needle’s in.

His breath catches. His jaw tightens. He doesn’t flinch, just looks down at the spot on his arm, then back at me.

And then he smiles.

Not sweetly. Not kindly.

It’s the kind of grin that belongs on a wolf just before the teeth come out.

“You better fucking kill me,” he mutters, head tilting as his knees start to buckle.

I step in close, steadying him as he sways, like we’re dancing.

“Oh, baby,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to his cheek as his body goes heavy against mine. “I’m gonna spoil you.”

His weight is solid, dead-limbed, but manageable. And I don’t even have to call for Dean, he’s already inside, like he’s been listening.

“Got him?” Dean asks casually, taking the other arm like we’re just helping a drunk buddy out of the bar.

“Like a dream,” I say, grinning. “And he smells so good. Like gunpowder and deer blood.”

Dean snorts. “So your type.”

I sigh, I’m already picturing Holden tucked under a fuzzy blanket in my concrete nest, confused and bare-chested and glaring.

“I can’t wait to show him his room. He’s gonna be so mad at first,” I giggle. “But it’s really nice. Comfy mattress. Good lighting. I even found him those wool socks he likes.”

Dean grunts as we haul Holden up the trail toward the car. “You know his sock preferences?”

“I know all your preferences,” I hum, stroking Holden’s hair as we go. “Why do you think I bought Evan those expensive face wipes? Or stocked your coffee exactly how you like it? I prepare.”

Dean glances at me sideways, a smile tugging at his filthy mouth. “You know, for a stalker, you’re the most thoughtful woman I’ve ever met.”