Chapter Eleven

Iopened my eyes and blinked. The fog of sleep cleared from my mind like clouds parting to allow the sunshine through. My eyes landed on the chair across from me.

Beckett had one arm thrown over his eyes, and his chest rose and fell in steady breaths. I couldn't help but admire him, loving the way he was sprawled out, looking relaxed… and delicious. The man was a thirst trap, and I was embarrassingly desperate.

Moving slowly, I sat upright, giving my body time to adjust. I touched my feet to the chilly hardwood floor and winced at the cold jolt that shot up my legs and through my body. With careful, measured movements, I shifted my weight onto my feet and stood upright.

I braced for a wave of nausea or faintness. And because I was lucky, I got both that morning. My stomach twisted and bile threatened to choke me, all while my body trembled and the cold sweats started. As black crowded the edges of my vision, I sagged back down on the couch for a moment, waiting for one or the other to fade.

A shower would have been a wonderful way to start the day, but falling first thing in the morning did not. Given that hot water raised my blood pressure and made me more likely to kiss the porcelain tub, I decided to skip it.

As my vision returned to normal, I slowly stood again. Beckett hadn't eaten enough the past two days, and that was my fault. I decided to fix that. It was the least I could do after putting him in such a messed-up situation.

Heading to the bedroom, I changed into comfy sweats and a tee-shirt. I breathed a sigh of relief to be in clean, soft clothes. I picked up my brush and gently ran it through my hair, trying not to notice how much was collecting in the bristles. When I finished getting out the tangles, I twisted my hair up into a bun on top of my head.

I tiptoed through the living room, not wanting to wake Beckett. Creeping into the kitchen, I gathered everything I needed to make him a breakfast he wouldn't forget. By the time he woke up, there would be a platter full of food waiting for him.

Peeking into the living room, I checked to make sure he was still sleeping and found that he hadn't moved. Wolves generally had a lot of energy, so his fatigue was likely a result of not consuming enough calories. What kind of horrible human being was I that I would practically starve a wolf?

Breathing a sigh of relief, I bent down to grab three cast iron pans from a bottom cabinet. One for bacon and sausage, one for eggs, and one for pancakes.

I waltzed around the kitchen, gathering ingredients and bowls for mixing. As I turned around to get to the fridge and get eggs, my forehead came in contact with a wooden cabinet door I'd left open while searching for bowls.

The thud echoed through the room as pain burst through my head. "Son of a bibliography!"

I paused, rubbing the aching spot and trying not to laugh at myself for being such a dummy.

Glancing into the living room, I watched Beckett's chest rise and fall a few times. Clearly, he was a sound sleeper. Closing the cabinet door, I turned toward the fridge.

I didn't know what was wrong with me, but I could swear I was more accident prone around him. Or maybe I was just distracted by something… like his gorgeous green eyes or sexy body.

Shaking my head, I pushed all thoughts of Beckett from my mind and got the bacon frying. When that task was completed, I turned my attention to making the pancakes. Adding in a touch of cinnamon and vanilla, I mixed the batter.

Only when the batter was smooth and ready to use did I turn back around. And that was when I saw the smoke rising from the pan of sizzling bacon.

Oh, great! I was going to set off the fire alarm. Again.

I rushed toward the pan, but before I could remove it from the heat, flames erupted in the pan and I let out a squeak of shock and stepped back. This had never happened before, and I didn't know what to do. But I knew I needed to figure something out before I burned the house down.

From the corner of my vision, I caught movement as Beckett strode into the room. Instead of looking panicked or angry, he appeared totally at ease. He walked right up to the flaming pan, picked up a metal lid I'd set aside, and covered the fire. With the fire tamed, he turned down the heat.

"I, uh… thank you. I swear I'm a good cook."

He arched an eyebrow at me and a playful defensiveness washed over me. "It's not my fault! You've got me all distracted."

His eyebrows shot up and he chuckled. "You're blaming this on me?"

I hadn't planned to, but it was too late to backtrack; I was committed. With a nod of my head, I grabbed the mixing bowl filled with batter and ladled some pancake batter into a pan, still feeling his stare on me.

"And I suppose I'm also the reason there's a red mark on your forehead?" Beneath his amusement, I thought I caught a hint of concern.

His reaction highlighted the reason I didn't want anyone in my life as my health declined. I didn't want people to pity or worry over me.

Blushing, I reached up and touched the spot again. "I walked into a cabinet. I think my last three brain cells are on vacation."

He moved closer to me, his eyes shifting back and forth between my eyes and my lips. As his hand cupped my cheek, I felt myself leaning into him. There was a click as he shut off the gas stove. I guess he was anti-burning the house down, which was good, since I'd woken up as an aspiring arsonist.

With no further warning, he lowered his lips to mine. His kiss was a study in contrasts. Gentle, yet hungry. Soft, yet powerful.

As his tongue traced along the seam of my lips, I gave him access to my mouth, allowing him to deepen the kiss. My body melted against him, and his arms wrapped around my waist as he supported my weight.

Far too quickly, he leaned back. His breath fanned across my skin as he gently touched his lips to the tender spot on my forehead in a way that left me ready to melt into a puddle at his feet.

I desperately wanted him to be mine, even if only for a matter of days… or weeks.

"What if I promise never to tell?" I whispered, still cradled in his arms. "I'm not going to live long and I swear I won't be a pain."

His body stiffened up, and I was sure he was mad at me for begging. I'd ruined a sweet moment with my comment because I couldn't keep my mouth from rambling.

Still, I didn't understand why he couldn't—or wouldn't—help me. What secret would be so impossible for humans to wrap their heads around that wolves had kept it to themselves for centuries?