His head drops a little, like the weight of what’s happened is heavy on his shoulders too.
“The red cloak is an old tradition. It signals your interest in a match. You run because your wolf demands that a den proves their worth, their skill, their…”—he clears his throat and avoids eye contact—“stamina. The dens hunt for their match, biting their mates if they find them. The mark starts a mate claim and acts as a propellant for any dormant wolves that need it.”
I loose a deep breath as I try to remove my own emotions from the situation and see things from his perspective for just a second. “So, whoever threw me into the Hunt not only fucked things up for me, but also for you and your…den too?” I ask, because his den clearly bit the wrong girl.
Ellery hands me the key card and sighs, running his hands through his dirty blond hair. “This won’t make sense to you right now, because you’ve barely peeked into our world…but my instincts tell me you’re ours. My den’s claimed you, and we stand by that claim.”
“And if I don’t want to be claimed by you and your den?” I challenge, my tone fragile and raw. “If I don’t want to belong to anyone else, if I only want to belong to me?”
Ellery offers me a sad smile and steps back from the entryway. “Then you’ll only belong to you.”
His gaze is soft and reassuring, and we stand there for a breath, just watching each other before I slowly close the door.
I press my back against the heavy wood and slide down it until I’m sitting on the carpet. Overwhelmed and choking on all the revelations, I struggle to catch my breath as my ribs curl tighter and tighter. Then I bring my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them, dropping my head to the cradle of my arms.
I was bitten by a monster, and now I’ve become one.
The tears start to drip steadily down my cheeks, and I let them.
I let myself crack and splinter.
I let myself grieve and hurt.
And I let myself cry for the life I’ve lost, and the new life I’m now forced to live.
12
NOAH
WEDNESDAY
I peel my eyes open, which is a feat because my lashes are crusted with dried tears. Staring up at the hotel room ceiling, which is crisscrossed by wooden beams and fancier than anywhere I’ve ever stayed before, I sigh. The cotton sheets are lush; the pillows and bed are heaven. But I’d trade all this luxury in a heartbeat for some sense of normalcy.
Unfortunately, I think normal got into a T-bone accident with impossible, and my life’s never going to be the same again.
Fucking hell.
I grumble as I glance over at the clock and see it’s seven fifteen in the morning. I crashed hard after my cry and shower last night, and I can still feel the aftereffects in my aching skull. Dragging myself up, I stumble into the bathroom, gulping down a glass of water and glancing over at the toothbrush and hairbrush that were delivered last night, along with a bag of new clothes.
Nope. Not ready to human yet, I decide, leaving the brushes on the counter before I make my way back to the bed. My stomach argues with me though and, instead of falling back asleep, I call for room service.
All of me is tender and sore and, if I weren’t starving, I’d pass out for three days straight.
When a knock sounds at the door, it’s a fucking effort to drag the comforter off, sit up, and pad over to it. I pull it open with a relieved sigh, ready to stuff my face with the five different breakfast platters I ordered.
Strawberry fucking pancakes, here I come.
But instead of a bellhop standing in front of me, Ruger—one of the hot crazy guys—stands next to a rolling cart of covered plates, looking like a wet dream. His light brown hair is parted on the side, he’s wearing a deep blue shirt that makes his cheeks glow pink, and I can see the edges of a tattoo peeking out from beneath his collar. His hand is raised like he was just about to knock, but when he sees me, he steps back a little.
I gape at him, then remember my morning breath and slam my mouth shut.
He gives me an awkward, tentative sort of grin, and my brain stalls for a moment. “Hey. I was hoping we could talk—”
With a jolt, I reboot and yank the food cart into my room. I stare at the Viking of a man for a long beat. Then I shut the door.
Leaning forward, I watch through the peephole as his head sags, and he rubs the back of his neck. I expect him to leave, but he just leans against the wall opposite my door and pulls out his phone.
What? What’s he doing? Why’s he here?
I watch him for a few more seconds and then walk away. I’m not ready to listen to anything he has to say. Not yet.
The wheel of the food cart gets stuck on something as I’m pushing it out of the door two hours later, my stomach deliciously full. My head snaps up in surprise when Ruger comes from around the corner and grabs the other side to help me maneuver it out of the doorway. With a little wrangling, we get it set next to the wall and leave it there for the staff.
“Thanks. You’re still here?” I ask, confused and more than a little put out. “I looked out the peephole…” I trail off, not finishing with I thought I was in the clear.
Ruger rubs the back of his neck again and shrugs. “I was…” He also doesn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he waves an arm to point down the hall where a chair is angled against a window with a plant and a little side table next to it.
“Oh,” I mumble. This is fucking awkward.
“I’ll pull the chair over here if it helps you feel better to see us,” he offers, gesturing to the chair again.
Us? I question internally as I take him in. I look around the wide hallway, but I don’t see anyone else. I can guess who us is though. His den. They’re here watching over me.
Does it make me feel better if I can see them? Or should I try firing my free bodyguards? Can you fire free bodyguards?
I shake away that stupid question and turn to shut the door, but a tiny scratching in my mind stops me mid-swing. I grab the door, stopping it from closing all the way, and poke my head out.
“What’s a pack?” I ask.
Ruger’s bright green eyes flash up, surprise pooling in them, probably because I’m still standing here talking to him after our uncomfortable exchange earlier. Surprise and a strange little expression that might be hope.
Glancing to the side, I clarify, “I mean, I know what the definition of the word pack is, but how does it work in relation to…shifters?” The word feels like sticky peanut butter in my mouth. I manage to get it out, determined to come to terms with this new reality no matter how odd or overwhelming it seems. Because it’s real and happening, and denial is a river in Egypt, not a place I want to live.
His hands dive into his pockets as he explains. “A pack is a group of shifters. It’s almost like a big extended family who all work together for the good of the whole.”
“So, like the mob.”