Hunted (Pack of Dawn and Destiny, #1)(33)

Sure enough, one of the wolves flattened her ears and curled up her lips, showing me her teeth.

“Stop that,” I said sharply, keeping my voice firm. “You’re better than this.” I shifted a little closer and used every trick I had to keep my heartbeat even and unafraid, selling my bluff.

Thankfully, it worked. She lowered her gaze and licked her chops, all apologies.

The two wolves turned on their paws and slunk into the darkening shadows of the forest, blending in with their grey swirled coats. I watched until they ducked around some trees and disappeared, then headed back to my cottage.

“You’re free.” I wrinkled my nose at Greyson. “Now goodnight.”

I opened my door, intending to leave Greyson outside, but he slipped past me, getting inside my home before me.

“Hey, I took care of the wolves,” I complained.

Greyson didn’t look back as he barged in. He slunk over to my one couch, climbed on it, then splayed out.

“Greyson,” I said, attempting to regain control of the situation. “What are you doing?”

Greyson ignored me and got comfortable.

He looked really out of place in my cozy home with his pointed muzzle, long legs, and thick white fur that was clearly meant for the wilderness.

But he rested his head on the blanket Mama Dulce had crocheted forever ago and settled in, tucking his tail over his legs as he closed his golden eyes.

With his eyes closed, it was safe to scowl at him and make a face—which I did.

“I swear,” I grumbled under my breath as I shut the front door. “It’s because of this Pack that I have entirely failed at romance. Packmates tell me I’m like their pet pooch, and then you use me as a romantic dispute settler—it’s not surprising the townies think I’m some weird handmaiden or something.”

I sat down at the table and dug into my nearly cooled pizza. “I’m never going to get a date, much less a relationship, as long as I live here.”

Greyson opened one gold eye to watch me for a moment, then shut it again as I ate.

When I finished and put away my dishes, Greyson wandered off to the bedroom—I assumed to sleep on the uncovered mattress.

Why is he here instead of hanging out at the lodge if he’s just going to sleep?

I shrugged it off as I did dishes, made some popcorn, then perused the single bookcase in the house, which was packed with Sherlock Holmes and Agatha Christie—those were Papa Santos’s favorites—and all the regency romances Mama Santos loved.

The regencies were secretly my favorite—which might account for my bitterness at being compared to a dog by any of the guys I was interested in—but tonight I plucked a battered copy of Sherlock Holmes and settled down on the sofa with my bowl of popcorn, switching on a lamp for extra light.

I was only about a page into the book when Greyson emerged from the spare bedroom, padded his way across the tiny cottage, and started to ease himself onto the sofa.

“Hey—what are you doing?” I peered at him over the top of my book. “Seriously, Greyson. There’s not room for both of us on here—you’re too big.”

Greyson gave me a disgusted look as he hefted his body all the way onto the sofa.

I was scrunched up, pressed into the arm of the couch while Greyson took up two of the three cushions, and was still pretty cramped.

“I’m not moving,” I said. “This is my home, and this is my spot.”

Greyson’s eyes glowed alarmingly with mischief, and he abruptly stretched out, then plopped down, his head and part of his chest resting on top of my legs.

His fur was soft and warm, and I could feel his breath on my knees as he got comfy.

“Hey—what is this?” I demanded.

Greyson shifted until he was on his side, then yawned, showing his massive teeth.

“I’m not a couch,” I declared.

He ignored me and sighed, closing his eyes as he stretched out his back legs.

For a moment, I debated what to do.

Is this a new method of teasing me—invading my cottage to show that nowhere is safe? But he’s not really doing anything.

Slowly I lowered my arms so my hands and my book rested on his neck.

Greyson didn’t even move.

I have no idea what any of this means, I concluded. And that’s really irritating. Possibly dangerous, but mostly irritating.

I stared at him for a moment or two, but no matter how I tried to remember, there was nothing about werewolves that said curling up with a person reading a book was a thing.

But werewolves will pile together when in their wolf form as a sort of bonding experience. Maybe that’s what he’s attempting to do?

I glanced down at Greyson, who appeared to be snoozing.

No. No way. Greyson likes to torture me, and he’s not a cuddler. Maybe it has something to do with the visiting hunters. That seems more likely.

Disgruntled, I returned to my book—where I could at least count on Sherlock to reveal the mystery to Watson and myself, rather than just act mysterious and annoying.

About thirty minutes passed before I realized I’d been absentmindedly petting Greyson’s shoulder, sinking my fingers into his soft undercoat.

I froze.

All the other wolves like getting their bellies scratched or a good pet. But Greyson isn’t really affectionate with anyone…