Page 8 of Wedding for My Werewolf (Fairhaven Falls #7)

CHAPTER 8

R obin hesitated at the threshold of Eric’s cabin, taking it in. The cabin’s rustic exterior had given way to an unexpectedly spacious interior, all exposed beams and warm wood tones. A stone fireplace dominated one wall, flanked by built-in bookshelves stuffed with a motley collection of books and found objects. A worn leather jacket was draped over a chair and a collection of carved wooden figures lined the mantel.

“This way.” He brushed past her, not quite touching her, the faint scent of cedar and something wild trailing in his wake. “Main bedroom’s yours.”

“I can’t take your?—”

“You can and you will,” he said firmly. “I’ll use the office. Already set up a cot in there.”

He pushed open a door, revealing a bedroom that practically screamed bachelor, from the simple navy bedding to the sparse decorations.

“I cleared out the top drawer, and the bathroom’s through there.” He hesitated for a second. “We’ll have to share that.”

She walked past him into the bedroom, her skin prickling at his closeness. The room smelled like him—that same cedar and wilderness scent surrounded her—and her heart skipped a beat. Sleeping in his bedroom, wrapped in his scent, felt more intimate than she’d expected.

“I really should take the office?—”

“Let me do this right.”

She turned, finding his golden eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch.

“Right. Okay. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” His voice was huskier than usual, his eyes starting to glow, and something stirred deep inside her.

Her breath caught in her throat. His chest brushed her arm as he passed, the brief contact sending heat spiraling through her body.

She stood rooted to the floor, her body buzzing, her heart racing, as the front door closed and he disappeared outside.

Stop being foolish , she scolded herself, and opened her backpack. She pulled out a sweater, then hesitated. Unpacking her clothes felt oddly permanent. No. It’s just temporary .

She slid open the top drawer of the oak dresser, appreciating the smooth glide after months of rickety furniture in cheap hotels. Her few pieces of clothing barely filled a quarter of the space so she tucked her backpack in as well.

The backpack landed with a soft thunk and she frowned, digging into the side pocket. Her sketchbook. She’d forgotten she’d tucked it between her clothes during her hasty packing all those months ago. Her fingers shook as she flipped through the sketches. There was the old man who fed the pigeons every Tuesday in the park. The barista with the septum piercing who always remembered her order. A mother and daughter sharing a pretzel on the subway platform. Her old life, captured in charcoal.

Her throat tightened at the half-finished portrait of Martin staring out the window behind his desk. She’d captured his sharp jawline and designer glasses, but the smile that had seemed so charming at the time looked twisted now. Had it always been like that or was she seeing it from a new perspective?

She snapped the book shut, her hands trembling, and shoved it under her backpack. That life, those people, that version of herself—they belonged to a different world. A world where she’d been naive enough to trust, to believe in people’s good intentions.

The drawer closed with a soft thud, concealing the evidence of her past life.

Eric returned with an armload of wood and built a fire with the swift efficiency of long practice, then looked over at where she was hovering nervously in the doorway to the bedroom.

“Would you like some tea?”

“You have tea?”

“Just because I live alone, it doesn’t mean I only drink beer and whiskey,” he said dryly, smiling when she blushed. “I have both, but I also have four kinds of tea. And three kinds of coffee, but I suspect you don’t need caffeine right now.”

“Tea would be fine.”

She followed him to the small but efficient kitchen, hesitated, then took a seat at the kitchen table, watching as he filled the kettle and placed tea bags in the teapot. When he added the boiling water, the delicious scent of mint filled the air. He brought the teapot to the table and filled two pottery mugs before taking a seat opposite her. The table was small enough that their knees brushed under the table and her stomach did a little flip.

She took a nervous sip, then sighed with pleasure.

“This is delicious.”

“My mother has an extensive tea collection.” He gave her a crooked grin. “She’s always pushing it on me.”

“Oh.” She took another sip. “So, what does she think of our…”

“Mating?” Golden eyes watched her over the rim of his mug. “She wasn’t pleased.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. She’ll come round.”

Despite the easy assurance in his voice, she could almost hear the unspoken probably at the end. It’s only temporary , she reminded herself yet again.

“We’ll need to be seen together in town,” he added, his fingers drumming once on the wooden table. “Regular meals, walks, the usual couple things.”

She traced the rim of her mug, avoiding his eyes. “How often?”

“At least a few times a week. Enough to be believable without overdoing it.”

He leaned back, still watching her. The way he looked at her, with those golden eyes warm and soft, made her chest tighten. She forced herself to focus on her mug instead.

“I won’t pry into your business,” he continued. “And I expect the same courtesy.”

Her sigh of relief was probably a little too fervent and she rushed into speech.

“What if… what happens if your mother—your Pack—discovers this isn’t real?”

His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking beneath his skin. The easy atmosphere vanished, replaced by something heavier. “They won’t.”

“But if they do?—”

“I’ll handle it. There won’t be any consequences for you.” His tone left no room for argument, but then his expression gentled. “Trust me. The Pack is my responsibility.”

The words ‘trust me’ echoed in her mind, bringing back memories she’d rather forget. But there was something in his steady gaze that made her want to believe him, despite everything her experiences had taught her.

The air thickened as their eyes locked, and she dropped her gaze to her lap, the intensity of his gaze overwhelming her. The silence stretched between them, but when she finally dared to peek at him, he was still watching her, his face unreadable.

“You’re safe here,” he said softly.

Unexpected tears burned her eyes. She’d heard the words before, but his deep, calm voice made her want to believe them. Overcome by the rush of emotion, she jumped to her feet.

“Let me make dinner. It’s the least I can do.”

“I’ll help.”

She pulled ingredients from his well-stocked cabinets, planning a simple pasta dish. He stood behind her, radiating heat. When she turned, her shoulder brushed his chest, and her breath caught.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, stepping sideways.

“Here, let me?—”

He reached for the flour at the same moment she did. Their hands collided, sending the bag tipping. White powder exploded across his black t-shirt.

He blinked down at himself, looking so bewildered that a laugh bubbled up before she could stop it. His answering chuckle, deep and rich, wrapped around her like a warm blanket.

“Maybe I should stick to grilling,” he said, brushing at the flour unsuccessfully.

“Stop. You’re just making it worse.”

She bit her lip, fighting another smile as she watched him create floury handprints all over his shirt. His golden eyes glittered with amusement, a hint of the boy he’d been hiding behind his stern exterior.

“It’s everywhere,” he complained, and before she could think, she reached for him.

“Flour is very persistent.”

She brushed his shirt gently, trying to ignore the warmth of his chest beneath her hand, and grazed his nipple, hard beneath the thin cotton. His breath hitched, and she snatched her hand back.

“Sorry.”

“I’ll just change.” His voice came out a growl, his eyes glowing.

“Y-yes. Good idea.”

He disappeared down the hallway and returned a minute later wearing a clean t-shirt. They maneuvered around each other in the small space, their bodies performing an awkward dance. Her hip bumped the counter, his arm grazed her back, each touch sending little sparks across her skin. But the earlier tension had eased, and the familiar routine of cooking soothed her.

A little while later, they settled down at the table. She tried not to watch as he devoured the food.

“That was amazing. You’re an incredible cook.”

“My grandmother taught me,” she said, surprised by how much his praise mattered to her. “We spent a lot of time in the kitchen.”

“My mother cooked when we were kids, but when my father became Alpha, she insisted on hiring a chef.” He made a face, then sighed. “Her family had a low rank and she grew up very poor. I think that’s why those things matter to her—the appearance of wealth, status. That’s why she’s so anxious for me to become the next?—”

“The next Alpha?” she asked softly when he came to an abrupt halt.

“Yes, but it’s not something I ever wanted.”

He quickly changed the subject, then insisted on washing the dishes. She wandered out onto the porch, enjoying the silence of the forest despite the cold. She sat on the front step, wrapping her arms around herself, and watched the shadows flicker between the trees. Everything felt different here—the air sharper, the darkness deeper, the silence more alive.

He came to join her, moving with surprising silence for a man of his size. Without a word, he draped a thick blanket across her shoulders and she snuggled into it.

He lowered himself onto the step beside her, not touching her but close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off his big body. Minutes ticked by, filled only by the whisper of wind through leaves and the distant cry of a night bird, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence.

“Thank you. For all this,” she said finally, her words barely audible.

His gaze remained fixed on the tree line. “Everyone deserves a chance to feel safe.”

Something in his tone made her chest tighten. Not pity—she’d heard enough of that to recognize it. This was different. Understanding, maybe.

She studied him in the moonlight—the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his neck, the way the muscles in his shoulders moved as he shifted his weight. His size should have frightened her—instead she felt safer than she had in a long time. She leaned back against the step, letting the warmth from the blanket and his closeness chase away the last of her lingering chill.

Eventually she rose, her muscles stiff from the long day.

“I should get some sleep.”

“Wait. There’s one more thing we need to discuss.”

He stood as well and the moonlight cast shadows across his face, making his expression even more unreadable than usual.

“You remember that I told you I needed to scent mark you?” He held up his hands at her sharp intake of breath. “It just means we need some physical contact.”

Her heart hammered against her ribs in an odd combination of excitement and trepidation. “What kind of contact?”

“Just a hug, and I’ll rub my face against your neck.”

That sounded innocent enough. So why was her heart still pounding?

“Now?”

He nodded, taking a careful step toward her. “Yes. To start building my scent. The Pack will expect it.”

She swallowed hard and nodded. He moved slowly towards her, watching her face before he wrapped his arms around her. His chest was solid against her cheek, his heart beating steady and strong. The warmth of him seeped through her clothes, chasing away the night’s chill.

He dipped his head, nose brushing her neck. His breath fanned hot against her skin as he nuzzled the spot beneath her ear. A shiver ran down her spine that had nothing to do with cold.

His scent surrounded her—cedar and leather and something wild she couldn’t name. Her fingers curled into his shirt of their own accord. A small sound escaped her throat as his fangs scraped gently across her skin.

The sound jolted her back to reality. This wasn’t real. She couldn’t let herself forget that.

She jerked back, nearly stumbling in her haste.

“That should be enough, right?” she asked breathlessly.

Without waiting for an answer, she fled into the house, leaving him standing alone on the porch.