Page 30 of Wild Games

It might also have something to do with meeting my mate, and my wolf deciding Raven is a poor substitute for the real thing, even if he came and grovelled for forgiveness.

And Jax certainly is the real thing, even if he’s determined to go against nature. But it’s not easy. His protectiveness shone through at the crime scene. He didn’t want me anywhere near it. I could feel his panic when he thought I might be hurt by the magic.

It’s frustrating and endearing all at the same time.

He is my perfect match, after all. It’s hardly surprising I still want him, no matter how mad I am. Fated mates are treasured in shifter culture. Finding yours is a precious gift, but one Jax seems keen to return.

As the steam rises around me, and I turn to tip my lathered hair under the spray, my thoughts drift to the lingering feel ofJax’s hands, his mouth, the way he pressed me against that tree and… no.

I should not be thinking about that.

But my traitorous mind replays it, anyway. The raw possessiveness in his voice. The way he snarled at Kain like a jealous mate. How his desire for me pressed long and hard against me as he caged me in.

The worst part?

I loved it. I wanted him to stop talking and just take what we both needed, until some semblance of common sense returned, and I remembered he just wanted to win some primitive pissing contest with another male.

Determined to get clean, to rid myself of any residual magic, and any trace of Jax’s divine scent, I scrub harder. By the time I step out, my skin is pink and raw, and I’m feeling more like myself again.

The towel is soft against my oversensitive skin as I pad to the bedroom. I should review my notes, but exhaustion weighs down my limbs, making thinking feel like swimming through molasses.

I’ll be sharper tomorrow after a few hours of sleep.

As I drop the towel and reach for my pajamas, movement outside catches my eye. There, in the shadows beyond my bedroom window, I see a pair of eyes glowing faintly in the darkness, watching. My heart pounds, but not from fear.

Jax, or should I say, his wolf.

Part of me wants to ignore him, to close the curtains and pretend I didn’t see. This back and forth between us is nothing but a distraction. But something in the way he sits there, silent in the darkness, makes me pause.

I dress quickly and head downstairs, pulling my thin dressing gown tightly around me, bare feet silent on the wooden floors.The night air is cool against my still-damp skin as I step onto the porch.

He’s there at the edge of the tree-line, massive, even for a shifted wolf, his thick grey fur blending with shadows. Only his eyes give him away, brazenly locked on me with an intensity that should frighten me. Yet somehow, he looks uncertain.

Then I notice the bundle at his feet. My scarf.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask, resting my elbows on the rough-hewn railing and observing his body language carefully. “I thought I made myself perfectly clear. If it’s not related to the case, I don’t care.”

The wolf doesn’t move, just watches me and waits. I should go back inside and maintain the boundaries I set so forcefully earlier. But something in the way he keeps his distance despite clearly wanting to be closer, makes me stay.

And as much as I like to work alone, sometimes, it is nice to have company.

“What have you got there?”

Taking my question as an invitation to come closer, he picks up the scarf gently in his jaws and approaches slowly, head hanging low. When he’s near enough, he sets it down on the bottom step and backs away.

My throat tightens. He’s trying to return what he took. The gesture cracks something in my chest.

“Damn it, Jax.” The words come out awkwardly as fat tears threaten to spill from my already puffy eyes. I sink down onto the steps, pick up the scarf, and then bring it to my nose. A pang of desperate longing blooms inside me as I breathe in our mingled scent. He’s been keeping it close to him, his scent now buried deep in the fibres.

A soft whine escapes him when he sees my glistening eyes. He takes a tentative step toward me, and then another, when Idon’t retreat. Another low whine. He’s close enough now that I could touch him if I reached out.

Close enough for me to feel the misery pouring off him.

Running the soft fabric through my fingers, I make a decision. I pat my knee. “Come here.”

He approaches cautiously until he’s right in front of me, his head level with mine now, even though I’m sitting. Purposefully avoiding looking into those expressive golden eyes, I reach up and carefully tie the scarf around his thick neck like a bandana, knotting it loosely, so it won’t bother him.

“There,” I whisper. “You keep it.”