49. Nikolas: Chicken
49. Nikolas: Chicken
NIKOLAS
By the time Claire and I step inside the house, the last bit of golden light is leaking through the treetops, painting long shadows across the floor. The door clicks shut behind her, and I should feel… what? Claustrophobic? On edge? Like someone’s invaded my space?
But I don’t.
She drops her purse and shoes by the stairs and stretches, loose and easy, like she already belongs here. Like this—her presence, the scent of her skin, the echo of her laughter in the corners of my house—isn’t completely unraveling me.
It is.
And it’s getting worse.
“You okay if I go take a quick shower?” she asks, voice soft as she brushes a few stray wind-tousled hairs off her face. There’s a smudge of dirt on her jaw, a streak of grass on her thigh. My instincts roar to the surface and I’m suddenly fighting the urge to lay her out on the kitchen counter and offer to clean off every inch of her skin with my tongue. The images that accompany that thought—memories from our time in the cabin of how she’d sound, how she’d taste if I did just that—strike me so hard and fast I have to curl my fingers into fists.
Mine.
I swallow hard and nod. “Go ahead. Take your time.”
She thanks me, then disappears down the hallway.
And I’m left alone with the echo of her scent and a dangerous ache clawing its way through my chest.
This is our first full night together here—since everything at the cabins. Since I promised she’d be safe. And I meant it. I’d tear the world apart to keep her that way.
But now she’s living under my roof, her things scattered around my house, sleeping in the room next to mine, and it’s… too easy. Too natural. Too dangerous.
Because every time I look at Claire, I want her.
I want her everywhere. In every room. On every surface. I want her laugh in the kitchen. Her clothes in my dresser. Her name carved into the hollow of my ribs.
And that’s the problem.
I shove both hands through my hair and turn to the kitchen, trying to distract myself before my thoughts spiral. Again. I open the fridge, eye the raw chicken in the back corner, and realize I have no clue what I’m doing.
How the hell do people cook chicken?
I pull it out anyway. I can at least… salt it? Heat it? That’s cooking, right?
Ten minutes later, I’ve got a pan smoking on the stove, a half-cut zucchini I mangled trying to use a dull knife, and a suspicious burn mark on my forearm.
That’s when Claire walks in, fresh-faced and barefoot, wearing an oversized t-shirt knotted at the hip. Her hair’s damp, her skin flushed from the shower, and I nearly drop the spatula.
She leans against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes twinkling with barely hidden amusement. “Wow. Smells like… effort.”
I grimace, “I’m cooking. Or attempting to, anyway. I did warn you this morning that my culinary prowess is limited to eggs.”
She bites her lip to stifle a grin as she comes closer, peeking over my shoulder, “Nik, what is this?”
“Chicken,” I say flatly. “Allegedly.”
She laughs—loud, full, unguarded—and I swear I feel it like a physical touch. It wraps around my ribs and tugs something loose inside me.
She brushes past me to grab the knife, and my breath hitches as her body skims mine. My wolf snarls at the contact, hungry and wild. I grip the edge of the counter to keep from grabbing her and pulling her back against me.
She doesn’t notice—thank gods—or she pretends not to. She chops like she’s done it a hundred times, her hands sure and fast, and I just… watch her.
“You’ve got a lot of knives for a guy who clearly doesn’t know how to use them,” she jokes.
“Decorative,” I lie.
She glances at me from under her lashes, smirking. “Right. Just like how this ‘seasoning blend’ is totally on purpose and not just an accident involving chili powder and… is this cinnamon?”
I glare at the spice jar. “That label lied.”
“Did you salt it?”
“I’m pretty sure I salted something."
Claire grins and finishes prepping the vegetables with swift efficiency before turning the heat down on the smoking pan. “There. Salvageable.”
“Remind me to never try to impress you again.”
“Who said I’m not impressed?” Her eyes sparkle with mischief, but there’s something softer behind it. Something warm.
It’s too much. The constant, unbearable thrum of having her so close and still pretending I’m fine. I force myself to look away, to fix plates, to pretend my hands aren’t shaking just a little.
We take the food out to the back deck. The night’s warm and quiet, stars just starting to prick through the dark velvet sky. She settles on the patio chair beside me, tucking one leg up under her, her plate balanced on her knee.
“It’s nice out here,” she says after a few bites. “Quiet.”
I nod, chewing slowly. I haven’t tasted a single thing I put in my mouth. All I can focus on is her scent—soap and skin and something uniquely her—and the way her thigh brushes mine every time she shifts in her seat.
It feels too good.
Too right.
And that terrifies me.
I’ve never let anyone into my space before. Not like this. The silence of my home has always been sacred—controlled, predictable, mine.
But now?
Now, the silence feels wrong without her.
And that’s how I know I’m fucked.
She leans forward in her seat, watching the tree line in the distance, and the moonlight catches on her skin, gilding her in silver. Each of my beast sides claw at me from the inside. And I don’t know how much longer I can keep holding them back.
Because Felix is still out there. Not to mention James. I can’t even think of the bastard’s name without wanting to rip him limb from limb. She’s still married to him, even if it’s in name only. And no matter how badly I want to claim her, to make her mine in every way that matters, I can’t.
Not yet.
But gods help me, I’m not sure I can wait much longer.