Page 11 of Wild Games
They saw a beautiful female and lost all sense, accepting her story about being here to quietly observe the games without question.
Idiots.
It doesn’t say much about their alpha potential if they can’t spot a well-trained enforcer when they meet one.
Only Ryan’s father, an experienced old alpha who knows a powerful woman when he meets one, had the sense to steer his son away from hitting on Camille and back to focusing on his skills.
My wolf had raged at every touch, every smile she gave them. They should’ve all been for me. I’d even dug my extended claws into my palms to draw blood just to keep myself from storming in there and creating a scene.
From showing them all exactly who she belongs to.
I thought the patrol would’ve helped give me distance from her tempting scent, but my wolf’s possessiveness got worse as the day went on, determined to get to her. I vaguely remember fighting the shift as darkness fell, my wolf demanding we visit her cabin to make sure she was safe. And alone.
A battle I clearly lost as I sit upright, staring at the scrunched-up fabric in my fist.
Her scarf.Her smell.
The material is wrinkled from my grip, her delicious scent now mingling with mine.
I’ve no memory of taking it, but the evidence is wrapped around my hand.
Fragments return in flashes as I sit up and bury my fingers into my mussed-up hair, squeezing my eyes shut against the flashing images torturing me with what I did. Not memories, exactly, more like echoes.
Camille on that porch again, wine glass dangling from her fingers, blonde hair hanging loose around her slim shoulders. Her curiosity growing as I crept closer. How she’d pressed her hand between her thighs, just for a moment, when she thought the darkness hid her.
Or maybe she knew I was watching. Maybe she wanted me to see, to hear her breathy little moans.
“Fuck.” The word comes out more growl than speech.
My wolf stirs, smug and satisfied. He got what he wanted, some of her scent in our den, although he’d prefer if it were from her skin against my sheets rather than a piece of stolen clothing.
A fist pounds on the basement door, making me scramble to hide the scarf, my precious contraband, under my pillow. Dean’s voice carries through the wood, irritated and concerned.
“Jax, get up. I need you to be functional today, not hiding in your cave.” A pause. “Or attacking people for no reason in the breakfast line.”
So he heard about that one.
My hands shake as I quickly pull on yesterday’s jeans, buttoning them as I go, adjusting myself awkwardly to hide the hard-on that just won’t go away, then hurrying toward the stairs.
“I’m up,” I call, heading for the stairs to cut him off as the keypad beeps with each digit of the code he enters.
I meet him at the top, blocking the doorway with my body. He can’t come down, can’t enter the basement that probably carries her smell.
Dean’s eyes narrow, taking in my defensive stance. “You look like hell. And you skipped out halfway through your patrol last night.”
I grunt and fold my arms across my chest, which has a sheen of perspiration on it that doesn’t go unnoticed by my perceptive brother.
“Didn’t sleep well.” Not a lie. The dreams were too vivid. Too real. Enjoyable but unsatisfactory. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or pissed off that you’re keeping tabs on me.”
His jaw clenches, and those grey eyes turn to steel. I do more shifts than anyone, and he knows it, covering for all the young wolves who want to go out and enjoy the festivities. I’mhappier working, running the borders, staying busy by night and sleeping during the day when everyone else is awake and moving about.
“It’s not keeping tabs when everyone I meet keeps telling me new stories about you flipping out for no reason.”
I’m tempted to make a joke, but if I want him out of here, I need to reassure him, not aggravate him. “Sorry. I’ll keep him in check today.”
Dean doesn’t reply. He wants to believe me, but my track record isn’t great.
“When’s the last time you ate?” His voice has an edge, brotherly concern replacing annoyance at my antics.