I slap a shaky grin on my face and do my best to de-escalate the situation.
“Well, that outfit’s a definite yes,” I declare, a little out of breath as I settle my apprehensive gaze back on Noah. “Almost made my boy shift himself,” I tease.
Noah stares at me, the look on her face worried as my attempt at levity falls flat as a pancake between us.
“Is he okay?” she asks, her gaze moving from mine back to the door Ruger just disappeared through.
She’s worried about him. That’s good, maybe this won’t set us back.
“He’ll be fine,” I reassure her.
He might toss around a few cars outside to burn off some of his frustration, but nothing we haven’t had to deal with before.
Noah levels me with a come the fuck on look. “He didn’t look fine to me,” she argues.
“That’s because Ruger is a pillar of calm control. It takes a lot to get him riled up. That’ll make more sense when you meet his family,” I explain. “He’ll be right as rain after a good long run.”
“Fuck,” she whispers, running her fingers through the long silky strands of her hair, which reach almost to her waist.
The pink robe she’s wearing rides up her thighs with the motion, and I have to look away to keep a hold of myself.
“First Ellery and now Ruger. What the hell am I even doing? Why am I standing here playing dress up while everything around me is a complete mess?”
My brow furrows. “What happened with Ellery?”
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she declares, and my stomach lurches at the distress I see on her face. “I don’t know how to be a wolf, or an eerie, or how to stand still in one place for longer than a year. I sure as fuck don’t know how to be someone’s mate, let alone mates with all four of you. This is so fucked.”
Shit. She’s spiraling.
I shoot a quick glare at Karen, and she cringes and points at herself and then the door. She slinks out as Noah drops her face into her hands, and I close the distance between us. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Astrid and Trista disappear through the curtain of beads that leads to their back room. I sigh, grateful that we’re alone, or at least have the illusion of privacy so I can try to help my mate.
“Shifters are sensitive creatures,” I tell her as I move closer. “We feel everything just a little more intensely. Happiness, anger, need—our emotions ride us hard. And sometimes our baser nature rises up to meet that call. It’s not a bad thing or a good thing. It just is. That’s all that happened with Ruger, so don’t let it freak you out,” I explain. “Take it as a compliment.”
“A compliment.”
“He wants to protect you, keep you safe.” I don’t add that his plan to do that mostly involved pinning her to the wall, fucking her so hard the building would shake, and then biting the shit out of her.
Noah sighs and shakes her head, dropping her arms and looking around the room as though she’s searching for something. She fists her hands and then releases the tension, only to fist them again, before her wandering gaze lands back on the door like she wants to run.
Fuck. I can’t let her run.
“Noah, you’re not fucked. You’re just new at all of this. It’s gonna take time and patience for things to make sense and feel normal again. You just have to trust yourself and trust us to help you find your way.”
She releases a little growl that’s absolutely adorable. I’m pretty sure she’ll swipe at me if I tell her that, so I keep it to myself.
“That’s the thing, I don’t know how to trust myself anymore. My emotions and thoughts are a fucking tennis ball bouncing back and forth between terrified panic, calm understanding, and this strange pull I’ve felt since I woke up in bed with you and Ruger. It’s confusing as shit. Do you get that?” she asks, and the anguish in her voice tugs at my soul.
I reach for her but she steps back, folding her arms across herself, tugging that wisp of a robe tighter. Her distrust saws roughly at the lining of my stomach, but I back off knowing she needs to get it all out before we can move forward.
“How can I trust myself when I don’t even know what I’m feeling anymore? And honestly, that probably bugs me more than anything else. Because even on my darkest, hardest days, on the days where the world crumbled and I had to find a way to get back on my feet and survive, I always had me,” she declares, pressing a hand to her chest. “I’ve always known that I could rely on myself. That I could, and would, do whatever it took to be okay. But now it feels like I can’t trust myself, and I don’t know how to get that back. I’ve gotten used to lonely. But lost is so much worse.”
The plea in her declaration wraps its fingers around my heart and squeezes painfully. Tears well in her eyes, and I curse this situation, and all of us, for putting them there. But I’m going to fix it. I have to fix it.
She continues, “I’m being forced to fit myself into a world I don’t know, and all I can rely on is a bunch of out-of-whack instincts and a group of complete strangers. I don’t know how to do that, Perth.” Her expression is pure agonized panic, and her hands make a clawing gesture near her face as if she wants to grab this entire situation and rip it to pieces.
Shit. I need to show her that she belongs here, that she’s one of us and always has been. I need to show her she can trust herself and us. Desperate to pull her out of the desolate thoughts she’s drowning in, I ask, “Do you dance?”
“What?”
“Do you dance?” I repeat. “Not like you do when you’re home alone rocking out, and not when you let loose in a club or bar. I’m talking with a partner, something more formal and structured?”
Once again, confusion crosses her face. The doubt and bewilderment that settles in her blue-green graze beats the hell out of the lost anguish and despair that was just there. I’ll take it.
A little flustered, she answers, “No, I don’t dance. I mean, I’ve never…”
“Perfect,” I chirp as I step closer to her in all her gorgeous glory and extend my hand. It takes effort to keep my tone light and playful so I don’t put any undue pressure on her, though my wolf is howling for me to grab her and chase her mouth with my own. I bat him down and ask, “Noah, may I have this dance?”
Her nose scrunches up adorably as she surveys first my hand, then my arm, and finally my face. I feel the caress of her perusal as if she skims her fingers across my skin instead of her eyes. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, keen awareness rising inside of me. Is she checking me out, or is she debating whether I’m safe?
I let my own eyes glide across her heart-shaped face, the soft angle of her jaw, the long line of her neck. I don’t let myself go any further, because I refuse to tempt the restless wildness already pacing inside my chest.