3. Kendra

3

KENDRA

We find ourselves back at Wyatt's table, a beer for him and a glass of water in front of me. I don't trust myself to drink alcohol, not when my arousal is already so out of control I'm barely hanging onto my restraint. What I want to do is hurl myself at him, tell him how much I've missed him, and make him claim me.

But I do none of that.

As I sit across from Wyatt, I can see how tense he is, as if he's got something to say. Maybe he wants to tell me to leave, that Unforgiven is no longer my home.

I did leave two years ago, but the truth is I wanted to stay with him, wanted him to claim me, but he never made a move. I just assumed I wasn't his mate, that he didn't want me the way I did him.

His jaw is set hard, a muscle working underneath the scruff. His hair is shorter than the last time I saw it, the dark locks maybe a finger length long, haphazardly mussed around his head.

I glance down at his hand, one that's big and strong, very masculine. His knuckles are white as he grabs his beer bottle. I wouldn't be surprised if he's just seconds away from crushing it, glass shattering everywhere.

I can tell my presence here affects him, but whether that's in a good or bad way is yet to be seen.

"So, you might be staying in Unforgiven?" he asks and brings the bottle to his mouth, taking a long pull from it as he watches me over the rim.

"I was thinking about it," I say honestly. I saw the flash of emotion cross over his face when I told him I might be staying in town permanently. I saw the way his eyes glowed yellow from his wolf, as if his inner animal was taking stock of how the situation was going.

He doesn't say anything and I feel this heavy weight settle on my shoulders.

I should've called, shouldn't have just inserted my life back into his like this. It isn't right, and it isn't fair to him.

We are so different, yet I feel he is—was—the first person, the only one, who truly knew me. I'm a human, he's a wolf. Technically, us being together will never work, right? He's destined to lead his pack, to be Alpha. How will I work in that equation?

A psychic human who is more fragile than the weakest female wolf shifter in his pack.

Yeah, I see that going over real well with everyone, see his pack accepting me as much as a thorn in their paw. I could snort at the very thought.

I avert my gaze and look at how he rests his arm on the back of his chair, his finger slowly moving up and down the edge of it. I can feel him watching me, but I'm too afraid to look into his eyes, to see his emotions reflected back at me.

I hurt him when I left, I know that. Hell, I hurt myself by leaving.

But surely Wyatt would have known I had to leave in order to survive?

"I'm sorry for just barging into your life like this." I stand and smooth my hands down my skirt, and then promptly curl my fingers into my palms. I don't want him to see that my hands are shaking.

I see the way his nostrils flare and I know he's reading me, taking in my emotions. I don't have to say anything for him to know what's going on inside of me.

He doesn't say anything as he stares at me, but I can see the play of thought on his face. He's thinking hard.

I nod my goodbye because I don't know what else to say. I turn, ready to leave, to lick my wounds—so to speak—when I feel a big hand wrap around my wrist, pulling me to a stop. I look over my shoulder and see Wyatt holding on to me. I didn't hear him get out of his chair, but that's not unusual given the fact that this shifter is stealthy on the worst of days, and a fucking immortal on the best.

"Nothing to be sorry about," he says in his gravelly, growly voice. It is the same one that gave me goosebumps back in the day. Looks like that still holds true. "I'm glad you're back in Unforgiven. I'm glad you're back in my life."

And just like that, my feelings for Wyatt come rushing back to the surface, so strong that I actually gasp from them.

And just like that, I am his.