Chapter 68 68
ARIELLE'S POV
He gave me a dismissive look, his jaw tight. "Think twice before pouring out accusations."
"I'm sorry..."
But he was already walking away. His back was to me before I finished the word. What an arrogant man. Couldn't even wait for a proper apology.
I watched him disappear down the path, then turned back to the house. The open door. The empty, lit room.
The sounds I'd heard. The growl. The whisper of my name. Was it just my hearing playing tricks on me? He had said he came looking for his stud. That was all. So why would he utter my name like that, low and rough, unless...
I sighed in resignation and walked back inside, pulling the door shut behind me and locking it. The deadbolt clicked into place.
But the thought wouldn't leave.
Was he thinking of me erotically?
I shook my head, a short, sharp motion like I was trying to physically dislodge the thought. No. What was I thinking? That was stupid. Embarrassing. The guy was practically a stranger—an arrogant, brooding stranger who owned the territory I was now living in. Just because he'd whispered my name in the dark didn't mean anything. It was probably the house playing tricks on me. Old wood settling. Wind through the cracks.
Yeah. That was it.
I turned away from the door and looked around the living room. The lights were on, the space small but warm. Everything seemed... clean. The floors had been swept. The counters in the tiny kitchenette were wiped down. The sofa didn't have any weird stains. It didn't look like I had to do much of anything before settling in. Someone had made sure the place was easy to inhabit.
I dragged my luggage box to the bedroom and started unpacking. Just the basics. Clothes in the closet. Toiletries in the bathroom. By the time I was done, the sun had dipped below the treeline outside the window, and the room was washed in shades of deep blue and grey.
Later that night, I was standing under the spray of the shower, hot water pounding against my shoulders. I'd figured it would be better to wash off the day before having a quick dinner. The bathroom was small but clean, the tiles a little cracked at the edges. I stepped out onto the bath mat, grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around myself. A small smile tugged at my lips as I wiped steam off the mirror.
Good thing I'd found a room just like mine back home. I'd been worried the bathroom would be down the hall, shared with god knows who. But no. The door right off the bedroom. Love me an ensuite.
I was about to unwrap the towel and reach for my clothes when I stopped. My hands froze on the knot at my chest. My eyes darted to the small window above the toilet.
Why did I feel like someone was there?
Not a sound. Not a shadow. Just a feeling. That old, primal prickle on the back of my neck that said you're being watched. I stood there for a long moment, water still dripping from my hair onto my shoulders, my breath shallow.
No. That's ridiculous.
I walked cautiously to the window, my bare feet silent on the cold tile. I pressed my face close to the glass and looked out.
Nothing. Just the dark shapes of pine trees swaying in the night breeze, their needles whispering against each other. The nice, clean scent of them drifted through a crack in the frame. No face. No figure. Just the quiet dark.
I closed the window and locked it, the small metal latch clicking into place.
Then I heard it.
Ding-dong.
The doorbell. Followed immediately by heavy knocking—three loud, insistent thumps against the front door. My heart lurched.
Who the hell visits at this hour? I grabbed the first thing I saw—my old robe from the bed—and shrugged it on as I hurried to the living room.
I opened the door carefully, just a crack, peeking out.
"Arielle!"
Mandy. She almost jumped at me, her arms already open, her face split in a huge, excited grin. Before I could say a word, she'd thrown herself at me, squeezing me in a tight, bone-crushing hug.
"Oh my god, oh my god," she blabbered, her voice muffled against my shoulder. "We're in the same pack now! Can you believe it? You're actually here!"
I chuckled, patting her back. "Relax, Mandy." I wanted to add it's just temporary, but the words stuck in my throat. Her joy was too bright, too genuine to quench with my complicated truth. So I just held on and let her squeeze.
She finally pulled back, grabbed my hand, and tugged me inside like she owned the place. She plopped down on the sofa and looked up at me, her eyes sparkling.
"This isn't even the best part," she said, bouncing a little. "We won't just live in the same pack. We're attending the same college. I can't wait for Monday, even though it's barely thirty-six hours away." She giggled, hugging herself. "I'm so excited I could scream."
I smiled, but it felt thin on my face. Monday. Right.
Mandy reached down and hoisted a carton box onto the table. The smell hit me before she even opened it—rich, savoury, warm.
"I brought fresh dinner," she announced, already working the flaps open.
"What?"
"I just got back to the pack house and found out our cook already made food. So I ditched having dinner with my uncle and came straight here." She beamed at me like she'd just solved world hunger.
"Hey, you don't have to worry about me," I said, sitting down across from her.
She frowned, her hands pausing on the box. "Why?"
"I mean... I'll be fine. I don't need you stressing—"
"Stressing?" She cut me off, her frown deepening. "Nah. You're my friend. I could do this much."
"No, Mandy." I leaned forward, trying to make her understand without sounding ungrateful. "You've already helped me get such a comfortable place to stay. And... I want to live off my own work. I plan on taking a part-time job later to sustain myself."
Her eyebrows shot up. "Why? Your family—"
"I want to be independent."
She stared at me for a second, then her expression softened. "Oh. Right. I understand." She went back to the box and pulled out a container. "But eat this, okay? You need to survive this night to work later.”
She unwrapped the lid, and the smell of homemade mac and cheese filled the small room—creamy, sharp with cheddar, with a hint of smoked paprika. My stomach growled traitorously. The pasta was golden, steam still rising off it, with bits of crispy bacon tucked into the side.
"Fine," I sighed, grabbing a fork from the kitchenette. "But just this once."
She watched me take the first bite, then asked, "How was your move-in? Did you have any challenges?"
I shook my head, chewing. "No. It was... surprisingly smooth."
"And my uncle?" she pressed. "He didn't give you any trouble, right?"