Wicked Cowboy Wolf Read online

  A moment later, when he turned back around, she was wearing the shirt he’d given her. The baggy old work shirt bore a few small holes, but somehow, on her, it was breathtaking. It barely covered the slender curve of her thighs, and damn, if his wolf didn’t notice.

  Down, boy.

  “Abducted,” he corrected.

  Her brow furrowed. “What?”

  “You said I kidnapped you.” He turned off the faucet before he raked his gaze over her. “Last I checked, you weren’t a child, which means it’s abduction, not kidnapping. If you’re going to keep company with criminals, best keep your crimes straight.”

  “It’s not like I had much choice in the matter,” she snapped.

  “You did have a choice, and you made it,” he corrected. “You agreed to come here.”

  She didn’t argue the point further. Instead, she crossed her arms over her chest, only causing the shirt to ride higher. His attention fell to the curve of her thighs. All it would take was a few inches higher and then…

  “You’re bleeding again.” She pointed.

  He touched his cheek. Crimson blood stained his fingertips on the scarred side of his face. Apparently, the bear had cut him there during the melee, but with all the scar tissue already present—not to mention the worse wounds on his chest—he’d barely felt the pain on his face. But even with his true nature, the scar tissue slowed the healing. Washing away the dried blood with water and then scrubbing it with the towel must have reopened it.

  “I’ll be fine.” With the scar tissue, it would take longer to heal than the larger wounds, but it’d be gone in a few days’ time.

  She pushed to her feet before she headed over to his bedside.

  “What are you doing?” The sight of her standing there by his bed, wearing nothing but that old T-shirt, was doing strange things to his head.

  She retrieved the medical supplies tucked near the footboard before she beckoned him to her side. “Patching you up. What does it look like? You saved me, and I don’t like the idea of being in your debt.”

  He crossed the room again to his dresser, where a clean shirt waited for him. “I think you’ve already discharged that debt.”

  “If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have run into that bear in the first place.”

  He gestured to the bandages on his bare torso. “I told you, I’ll be fine.”

  “Do you always refuse help when it’s offered?”

  He paused but didn’t answer. The question caught him off guard. He was back there again. He was ten and she was seven. Over twenty years earlier, a broken, sad child hiding by the creek after the other boys had taunted him again. She’d crouched beside him as she extended an aloe plant to him, for the small cuts the other children had inflicted. It’d been a sign of friendship, the first he’d ever felt. For years, she’d been his only friend, his only place of refuge.

  Once upon a lifetime ago…

  “I’m not taking no for an answer.” She sat down on the bedside, patting the spot next to her before she busied herself with a handkerchief, a bottle of isopropyl alcohol, and some gauze.

  Confined by the bedroom walls instead of out in the fresh mountain air, she was close enough that he couldn’t escape the delicious scent of her and how it called to him like a siren. From those gorgeous eyes to the curve of her pink lips, everything about her was perfection. Hell, even the gentle slope of her neck, her shoulders, her collarbone was somehow erotic. What he wouldn’t give to trail his lips over that sensitive skin. His cock stiffened.

  He cleared his throat. “Little consequence in comparison to my chest.” He wrenched a drawer open. He needed to keep her away from him. Of that, he was certain.

  “Quit protesting.” She removed a handkerchief from the bedside table and poured the alcohol onto it before she reached for him. When her delicate fingers gently wrapped around his wrist, he stiffened.

  Twisting toward her, he growled. “No.”

  He didn’t allow anyone to touch the scarred side of his face, especially not her. Not even when his cock was aching for her to touch him anywhere. Anywhere but there.

  Mae shook her head. “I told you. I won’t take no for an answer.” She had the same determined look on her face that she’d worn years ago when she’d proclaimed herself to be his friend. She’d forced friendship on him even when he hadn’t known he wanted it.

  He should have expected as much. “It’s not help if it’s unwanted. It’s coercion.”

  “Well, I’m learning from the best, aren’t I?” A grin quirked her lips.

  He wanted to devour that grin right off her gorgeous mouth. When she looked at him like that, her soft touch still holding on to his wrist, he imagined all the things he wanted to do with her, to her. Things far more dangerous and tempting than allowing her to touch his scars…

  “Fine,” he relented. If she wanted to see his deformities up close and personal, he’d let her. Maybe then she’d see the monster he was. Maybe then she’d finally realize she should be afraid, and maybe, just maybe, when he realized his scars repulsed her…

  …he would no longer ache for the past.

  He sat on the bed and she joined him at his side. She reached for him, but just before she touched his cheek, she hesitated. She hadn’t even touched him yet, and already she was disgusted.

  “I may look like a monster, but I’m not going to hurt you.” Her reluctance offended him more than he cared to admit. His reputation painted him in a grim light—and for good reason—and he knew that side of his face was hideous, deformed, but he’d just risked his life for her, saved her…and with them alone in his room like this, the thought of when he’d kissed her inside that godforsaken closet haunted him. He’d kissed her so thoroughly that the feel of her against him was forever seared into him.

  And then he’d told her it meant nothing to him.

  What a load of horseshit.

  “It’s not that. I was afraid I’ll hurt you.” She reached for him again.

  This time, she didn’t shy away. With gentle movements, she cupped his cheek and used a handkerchief to wipe away the fresh blood. Her touch was gentle, tender. Some of the nerve endings on that side were damaged, making it less sensitive, yet he was aware of her every movement. Rogue could count the number of times someone had touched him there on less than one hand. The stroking movements of her palm and handkerchief as they brushed against him felt foreign, distant, as if she were touching him through a kind of veil.

  A veil of time lost…

  As she tended to him, he watched her, searching for her disgust, but he didn’t find any. Instead, he only found kindness, maybe a hint of curiosity, but not disgust. This close to her, he could imagine what it’d be like to lean in and capture her lips again. She’d tasted sweeter than he could ever imagine. But he wouldn’t. Not now. Kissing her again would be a mistake.

  But he’d been a fool to never take advantage of that opportunity as a teenager, back when they had stood a chance. Back when he’d been worthy of her.

  The pale green of her eyes was washed even lighter in the moonlight, and for a fleeting moment, he lost himself there. For the first time in years, he forgot who he was. Suddenly, he was no longer the Rogue, a dark, nefarious monster of a criminal who lived his life among the shadows, who’d earned his reputation through sin and blood. Instead, for a brief moment, he was Jared. Just Jared. Sitting next to the woman he’d once loved, the woman he’d sacrificed everything for.

  Twenty years earlier, he would have told her everything. Back then, they would have sat on the roof of her house beneath the stars, perched there like two night owls as they exchanged whispers. Back when he’d meant something to her.

  Silently, he willed her to see the truth.

  But she didn’t.

  Mae broke eye contact, turning away.

  Pain seared through him, but he pushed
it down, shoving the memories and emotions into the cavernous hole in his chest, the place where the darkness of his past ate away at him, where he kept his secrets. She didn’t see him, and she likely never would.

  And he hated that he wanted her to so desperately.

  She rubbed the handkerchief over his skin one last time, the caress leaving his cheek free of blood. She reached for more isopropyl alcohol. Unscrewing the cap, she tried to pour some onto the handkerchief material, but it spilled onto the thigh of his jeans. “Crap. I’m sorry. Let me—” She reached for his thigh.

  Instantly, he caught her wrist in his. “Don’t,” he warned.

  His eyes flashed to his wolf’s. He needed to keep his distance for both their sakes, and if she stroked her hand over his thigh when they were alone like this, now that he knew how she tasted…

  Her lips parted and she swallowed a gasp. He could tell she was both intimidated and intrigued, but she’d never admit it.

  “You don’t scare me,” she whispered.

  “Pity,” he said. “I should.” His voice was a dark, purring growl.

  They lingered there, their gazes locked and neither one of them willing to relent. The tension between them grew so thick he could have cut it with his knife. Temptation thundered through him. All it would take was one tug of her wrist, and she’d topple into his arms. One little pull and he’d finally claim her. This time, there would be no interruptions to stop them. He’d have his way with her. And from the heady mixture of fear and desire in her eyes, she wouldn’t protest.

  Her tongue darted out to wet her pink lips as Rogue fought to keep his grip steady. He was close enough that even in the moonlight, he could count the spattering of freckles on her cheeks, the way they speckled across her nose and climbed to reach her eyes. Close enough to see the amber starburst that encircled the green of her iris. Close enough to watch the cords of her throat dance as she swallowed. Close enough to want to taste her and to know that if he dared, she would let him again. What he wouldn’t give to have just another taste…

  She’s not for you, and she never will be.

  Not with what lay in their future now.

  “Draw nearer and you’ll regret it,” he warned.

  The truth instantly broke the tension for them both.

  “I’m sorry,” she finally whispered again. She tore her gaze away, and he released her wrist. She quickly repoured the alcohol, this time away from his lap.

  When she turned back toward him, she refused to meet his eyes. Instead, she focused just over his right shoulder, away from him. “This’ll hurt,” she warned. She swiped the damp handkerchief over the open wound.

  He hissed in response. But the pain brought instant relief, reminding him of himself, of who he was, what he was, what remained at stake. When all was said and done, Mae would be little more than collateral damage in the game he played. Once their deal was complete, she’d hate the very earth he walked on. She’d been a fool to make a deal with a wolf like him, and she’d soon realize that, because he wasn’t the hero in this story. He was the villain.

  And the sooner he remembered his role, the better.

  “You’re tougher than I am. That would make me howl,” she said.

  “I don’t suggest it. Not unless you want your packmates to come looking for us. They’ll have put out word that you’re missing by now, offered an award for information.”

  “I thought you said they wouldn’t find us.” Her eyes widened. She almost looked panicked.

  “They won’t, because they won’t be looking for you here, but best not risk it.”

  Tucking the handkerchief away, she ripped off a piece of the gauze as he watched her.

  “You seem concerned they’ll find you,” he said. There was something she wasn’t saying. He sensed it.

  “I’m just…not eager to go back yet.”

  He quirked a brow. “And what would make a princess want to leave her castle?” He stiffened. If anyone had hurt her again, he would bleed them dry.

  “If she’s been locked away…” She said it so quietly he almost didn’t hear her. The words weren’t intended for him, but he heard them nonetheless.

  He stilled, taking in the sight of her sitting there before him. With that sad look of longing on her face, she looked too vulnerable for his liking. It brought back harsh memories he didn’t care to relive. “You don’t seem all that locked away to me.”

  They both lingered there. The sound of the cicadas outside the window echoed and screeched through the night.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” she said.

  “Try me,” he urged.

  She hesitated, glancing toward him as if she wasn’t certain whether to trust him, but finally she answered. “It’s just… I’ve never so much as left the state of Montana. Even after my parents died and Maverick became packmaster, I went to college for finance in downtown Billings, because that was what was expected of me. It was the best choice to serve the pack. Then it was back to Wolf Pack Run to work on the ranch, because that was expected of me too. But it…” Her voice trailed off.

  But it wasn’t what she’d wanted. She didn’t need to say it. He knew that without a doubt.

  “It sounds like you have everything you need,” he offered.

  “What’s having everything when you weren’t the one to choose it? I’ve never been in control of where I go, what I do, who I love. It’s part of being a Grey. There are rules, restrictions, responsibilities to the pack.” The words flowed forth as if she’d held them in far too long. She released a long sigh. “I may not be locked away, but when every choice has already been made for you, it starts to feel that way, like you’re trapped and…”

  She hesitated.

  “…and you can never get out,” he finished.

  Her breath caught, hitching on a quick inhale. For a moment, she watched him, scarcely breathing. “Exactly,” she whispered. It was clear from her surprise that she couldn’t believe he understood.

  But he always had. Even when he’d been fifteen and sitting on her bed as she cried on his shoulder, he’d understood. She’d wanted so much more than life had given her, to have every door wide open before her. In the years since, he’d been so steeped in his own hell that he’d nearly forgotten how much she’d longed for the only thing he’d ever had.

  Freedom…

  The sadness in her eyes tore him to shreds more than he cared to admit.

  She placed the gauze over his wound.

  “Why not leave then?” he asked.

  Her brow furrowed. “I could never leave. They’re my family. I love them.”

  Yet she had no idea what her father had done, what her brother had hidden from her in a misguided attempt to protect her. The thought sickened him. He clenched his teeth. Gathering the supplies from her, he crossed the room, placing them on the bathroom counter as an excuse to put some distance between them.

  Before the past swallowed him whole, as if he were Jonah in the belly of the whale.

  “Love doesn’t sound all that appealing if it puts you in a cage,” he growled.

  “When you love someone, you’d sacrifice anything for them, even your own happiness.” There was hurt in her voice, pain so palpable he struggled to breathe beneath the weight of it. “But a man like you wouldn’t know how to love, would you?” she said.

  He tensed. He couldn’t look at her. Not now. “No, I wouldn’t,” he lied.

  “You have no idea what it’s like to have obligations to a pack, a family, expectations, to not have a choice in the outcome of your life,” she continued.

  He did know what it was like. He knew exactly what it was like, but he didn’t dare tell her that. He knew how it felt to have every piece of his identity, his sense of self, stripped away from him…like he was fifteen again, barely more than a child, stripped naked and so badly wounded he couldn’t
even shift as he struggled to find shelter in the snow. The prickling ice had gnawed at his bare feet for so long it had felt like fire, as if he were walking through the mountains on hot coals.

  “You’re right,” he lied again, shoving the memory down. “I don’t.”

  Not anymore…

  “It’s strange,” she said. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I don’t even know your real name.”

  Rogue swallowed the lump in his throat. “It’s Rogue,” he ground out. “Just Rogue.”

  To her, that was all he ever would be. Jared was dead.

  And he’d do well to remember that.

  Chapter 8

  Wicked—that was the title Mae would give the portrait she wanted to draw of him. As Rogue turned back toward her, moonlight reflected on his face, making him all hard lines and sharp angles. Between the hollows of his cheekbones and the puckered ridges of his scars, he looked like a man who’d been through hell and back, a man who’d walked through the veil of shadows yet survived. Everything about him was testimony to power and hardened will, to wild, feral darkness. The contrast made him breathtaking.

  She didn’t believe that his real name was Rogue, but from the way he’d nearly growled it at her seconds ago, she wasn’t going to press the issue. If he wanted to be called that, so be it.

  She watched as he leaned against the window, staring out into the darkness. She’d never longed for her art supplies as much as she did now. This man knew survival, the kind most beings—human or otherwise—had never been forced to endure. She saw it in the languid way he moved, how he carried himself, in the sharp, predatory nature of his gaze. Looking at him like this, the planes of his face obscured in shadow and moonlight, his hardened jaw drawn in a tight line, most would believe him when he said he didn’t know love.

  But she didn’t.

  And she wanted to capture that on paper.

  “I want to draw you,” she blurted out before she could stop herself. “The chiaroscuro would be amazing.”

  His heavy gaze turned toward her, ice-blue eyes unlike the warm, tanned lines of his face.