Chapter 11 - Jonah

"Can you slide that paint over here?" Jonah called down from the top of the ladder, stretching to reach the top of the wall.

Moira, hair tied up with a bandana, paint-spattered all over her overalls, set the can down beside the ladder's base. She looked at him, and he smiled at the freckles of paint across her cheeks.

"I think we're going to need a second coat," she said, eyeing the walls critically.

They'd thrown open all the working windows in the lighthouse to air it out as they worked on repairing the years of neglect. It had taken a full day to clear out the broken glass and furniture and another to hang a new front door. Moira painted it a bright, cherry red.

"Or three," Jonah agreed. Even after scrubbing and patching, the walls still needed a lot of help.

The lighthouse was the manifestation of Jonah's shame. It embodied everything his father had done wrong during his time as alpha, and Jonah had been torn between wanting to tear it down and wanting to fix it up. Moira had insisted on the latter.

After days of work, the kitchen was usable, cabinets painted, and countertops replaced. While a far cry from the modern kitchen he'd gotten accustomed to at the White Winter's, it was no longer a health hazard.

"You know, this place really gave me the creeps before," Moira said, grabbing a roller. "It just looks like the kind of place that would be haunted."

Jonah thought of his mother's death and his father's decline afterward. He could imagine her ghost clinging to this place she had loved in life. His memories of her were fuzzy, wrapped in a warm, golden glow, more the impression of how he'd felt in her presence than distinct recollections.

"In a way, it is," Jonah said. "Or it was for my father anyway. He couldn't come back here after my mother died. Couldn't face it. It's no excuse, but I think he saw her here long after she was gone."

Moira set the roller down. "Is it hard for you to be here?"

He considered a moment before answering, then shook his head. "Not as hard as I thought it would be, but I couldn't face it for a long time."

"Time away can heal many things," Moira murmured, softly.

Jonah had the feeling she wasn't thinking about the lighthouse anymore. Her eyes were faraway.

"And the company helps," he added, trying to lighten the mood.

He thought he knew exactly what wounds she remembered, which required years to heal. The ones he had inflicted on her back in high school. No amount of apologizing on his part could undo the damage he'd caused back then.

"You're just sucking up, so I'll do the trim again for you." Moira narrowed her eyes at him.

"Is it working?" Jonah asked, flashing his smile at her, knowing it would get him an eye roll.

He loved making her eyes roll, the way it always came with a hint of a smile she couldn't suppress.

"Maybe," she said, picking up a paintbrush. "If you make me another coffee."

"Your wish is my command." Jonah hopped off the ladder and made his way to the kitchen.

He'd brought supplies to make pour-over coffee and some freshly roasted beans from the cafe, knowing they'd need all the caffeinated support they could get during the lighthouse project. With the open floor plan, he could still see Moira, head bent, as she painted the areas near the trim with precision.

"How are you so good at that?" Jonah set the water to heat up on the stove and set the pour over on top of her mug.

Moira lifted one shoulder. "It's a bit like frosting a cake in a way. Steady hands and patience will get you far."

"This is why I prefer cooking," Jonah said, pouring the water slowly over the ground coffee. "It doesn't require that same level of precision."

Under the smell of the brewing coffee and the paint, Jonah caught a hint of something else, winding its way in through the open windows. Rain. He glanced out. Rolling clouds gathered above a bloody sunset, dark and heavy. Flashes of lightning arced across from cloud to cloud far out over the sea.

"Uh oh," he breathed.

"What is it?" Moira asked, turning.

"A storm," Jonah replied.

The rain came all at once. It drowned out all other noise, encasing them.

"The windows!" Moira cried, dropping the paintbrush and running for the nearest open window.

Rain streamed inside, puddling on the sill and dripping toward the fresh paint. She yanked it closed and ran for the next one. Jonah joined her, and they shut all of the ones that could be, left with just the two broken windows facing the sea.

"What should we do?" Moira asked, pushing a rain-soaked strand of hair from her face. Her arms were spattered with droplets, and one dripped down the soft curve of her cheek.

Jonah thumbed it away without thinking, fingers lingering on her warm skin. Moira's mouth parted, surprised. He wanted to drag his finger against her lower lip and feel the heat of it, wanted to crush it with a kiss.

A crack of thunder made them both jump apart. Around them, the world was dark as night, with the blanket of clouds blotting out the last dregs of sunlight. Water was streaming in through the broken glass.

"Grab some boards, and we'll nail them on." Jonah pointed to a stack of extra wood and grabbed the hammer and nails.

Together, they managed to get the broken windows covered, and the roar of the storm faded, though it battered relentlessly against the lighthouse.

"Guess we're not going anywhere for a while," Moira said.

They were soaked now, both of them, from the chest up after their fight with the windows. Jonah's shirt clung to him. He pinched it and pulled it away from his body, grimacing.

"Did you bring a change of clothes?" Moira shook her hair from the clip, smoothing it with her fingers. Her overalls were a shade darker where they'd gotten wet, and the shirt beneath was translucent, revealing the top of her chest.

Jonah swallowed, looked away. "No, but at least I can get a fire going in the wood stove. That'll warm us up and maybe dry us off a little."

While they were working, the brisk autumnal air had been a godsend, but now that they were wet and sedentary, a chill had started to set in. There was a stack of dried, aged wood next to the stove, and with a little work, Jonah was able to get a blaze going. In a few minutes, the heat would fill the small lighthouse.

"There we g—," Jonah said, turning. His mouth went dry.

Moira had shed her shirt while his back was turned. The overalls barely covered her, revealing the swell of her breast but hiding the peak of her nipple. Forcing his gaze up to her face, he found her staring at him with a challenge in her eyes.

"It was soaked," she said, lifting the shirt up. She brushed past him to hang it near the stove, where it would dry quickly.

He ached to trace the curve of her neck where it dipped to meet her shoulder. A trio of freckles dotted the skin there like a constellation. It was all he could do to walk away and grab the coffee he'd made for her, topping it up with a splash of hot water.

"Here, this'll help warm you up." He held out the coffee for her and focused on making his own until his body settled down again.

She curled up on the couch, legs tucked underneath her, long fingers wrapped around the mug. He stared at the back of her and wished he could know everything she felt and thought. Did she feel the pull between the two of them the way that he did? It was a force that he couldn't explain, one that had prickled at him even in his teenage years.

Now they were thrust together, working side by side, connected by fate, but with something between them that felt like a nearly impenetrable wall. Something that kept him from diving in like he wanted to. He was afraid that she would reject him. Afraid that she had good reason to. But god, he wanted her.

He took his coffee and sat beside her on the couch, carefully leaving a space between them.

"Don't you want to take that off?" Moira nodded at his shirt. "It looks pretty wet. That can't be comfortable."

"I don't have another one," Jonah said, trailing off.

"You won't scandalize me." Moira raised her eyebrows over the rim of the cup, and he had the distinct feeling that she was enjoying it, daring him to strip it off in front of her.

He put his coffee down on the table with a clink and stood, slipping his hands under his shirt and lifting it off over his head. The moisture on his skin wicked away, leaving goosebumps across his chest. Moira was watching him, rapt.

Was it possible that she felt some of what he did? Was she drawn toward him as he was toward her? He barely let himself hope it.

"You have some water here," she said, leaning forward to brush her fingers down his stomach.

He shivered, watching the progress of her finger as it moved from his chest downward, dipping into the valley between his abs and skimming over his navel, to the waistband of his jeans. Her finger hovered there.

"Moira," he breathed, growing hard enough to strain against the denim, hard enough for the bulge of it to be noticeable, so near to her hand.

Her touch was a blaze against his cold skin, leaving a trail of fire behind, and he wanted more of it, to be consumed by it. She was in no hurry to put him out of his misery, dragging her finger sideways along the dip of his hip. Closer now, close enough that he could feel her breath against him, she flattened her hand and moved it back up his body, behind his neck, drawing her down toward him.

He needed no other invitation. He was burning for her, desperate for her. Jonah pushed her back onto the couch and captured her mouth beneath his, straddling her. She urged him on with her tongue and her clever fingers, winding into his curls, dragging over his back with a light scrape of her nails. His breathing was ragged as he worked his way down her neck, biting the tender skin there, then soothing it with a kiss.

"Damn these things," he growled, coming up for air when the straps of her overalls thwarted him.

She was pinned beneath him, her hair a black web around her face, lips bruised from his kiss. He wanted her naked. Wanted all of her exposed to him, bared for him. Finally, the buckles came free, and he yanked the straps down, freeing her breasts.

He simply stared at her for a heartbeat, soaking in every inch of her skin. Then she bucked her hips up beneath him, needy, impatient, and he couldn't hold back. Her nipples were hard little peaks for his tongue to tease. She gasped and caught the back of his head, drew him down, moaning when his teeth brushed against the delicate nub.

He pulled back again, pleased by her cries of protest when his mouth left her skin, the way she reached for him.

"Off," he said, tugging her overalls down.

Moira lifted her hips for him, and he slid them down her legs, impatient. She wore a flimsy pair of black panties, their contrast sharp against her cream-colored skin. It was all he could do not to yank them down and sink himself into her. His cock demanded it.

Instead, he moved slowly. He worked his hand up her thigh until it just touched the crease of her leg, where he could feel the heat of her. She pushed toward the pressure, growling when he moved his hand away, but Jonah wanted to burn every second of this into his mind.

"Please," she begged, squirming.

He relented, rubbing his finger down the center of her panties. They were soaked through. Jonah waited until she was twisting again, pushing herself into his hand, before sliding her panties down.

She reached for his belt buckle, and he shook his head, nudging her back down. He moved down her body, kissing the swell of her stomach, her inner thigh, the mons.

Finally, he tasted her. She was sweet on his tongue, and even sweeter when she knotted her hands in his hair. He teased her, lapping at her clit, bringing her to the edge before stopping to lick long, lazy strokes up her pussy. Only when she started to beg, when her thighs clamped tight around his head, did he let her cum.

"Jonah," she gasped loud enough that even the storm could not muffle her. "I want you. Please, I need you."

His face was covered in her as he drew back to kick off his pants, cock springing free. It was painfully hard. He pressed his cock teasingly against her entrance, slicking it with her wetness. She pushed forward until the tip began to stretch her folds until he could feel the warmth waiting for him.

He waited until her eyes fixed on his to sink deeper, so he could watch them widen as she took his full girth.

"Oh fuck," she whimpered. "It's… it's so much."

Jonah's fingers slid between them to work her clit, relaxing her until he could fit the whole length of himself inside her tight pussy. She felt so good. It wouldn't be long before he lost control.

She dug her nails into his back as he started to move, tightening around him again as she neared her peak. He thrust deeper, finding a rhythm that made her throw her head back in pleasure.

"Moira, I'm close," he growled, burying himself into her, sinking until their hips met. The couch rocked with the force of his thrusts.

Her legs wrapped around tightly around him. She urged him on until finally, he came undone, head spinning as he filled her. Panting, he kissed her cheek, her neck, her lips. His heart raced in his chest, and he felt hers match the pace.

For a long time, they lay like that, listening to the storm rage outside the shelter of the lighthouse. Lightning struck so close that it shook the walls and the windows, but there, Jonah pressed close to Moira with the stove warming their sweat-slicked skin, and he felt at ease. Safe.

He didn't want to break the moment by speaking, afraid she might regret what they'd done in a burst of passion. It was Moira who spoke first, her voice raw.

"Well, that's one way to keep warm."

"I wasn't expecting that," he said, stammering. "I hope you know I didn't plan this in any way when I asked you for help on this place."

She shushed him. "It was my idea, Jonah. You don't have to feel guilty over it. I enjoyed myself, if you couldn't tell. I can be rather subtle."

He laughed, remembering her moans and the way she threw her head back when the orgasm struck her, the way her nails and teeth sank into him. Reluctantly, he pulled out of her and fetched a towel to clean them both up, missing her warmth.

"Here," he said, grabbing her shirt from its hook by the stove. It was dry and pleasantly hot. "Though I'm happy if you want to just go around like this."

Jonah gestured at her naked body, still bared to him. His cock twitched in appreciation.

"I don't need the ghosts seeing me naked," she said, pulling her shirt and panties on. But she hung the overalls on the hook, leaving her legs bare.

Every inch of her soft curves deserved to be worshipped. Every inch cried out for his touch. But she wasn't his, not really. Even after that, he knew better than to assume it meant something more than pleasure to her. They had an agreement, and now it had some benefits, but that's all it was, no matter how badly he wanted it to be more. He'd held her body, but he'd never hold her heart.

He buttoned his jeans and drank his now cold coffee, a heavy feeling settling into his chest in the wake of their closeness. If he could just reach out and hold her again, he knew it would vanish. But he couldn't.

"I can make us some dinner," he said, getting to his feet, restless.

The longer he sat there, the deeper he'd sink into his melancholy. With a life as messy as his, it was hard to resist dwelling on all the wrong turns, all the missed chances, all the screwups.

"Oh right, you mentioned that you cook," Moira replied, a wrinkle between her brows. "Did you bring anything?"

He opened the fridge to reveal a mix of vegetables and meats he'd brought along, unsure of how long they'd be working there. "I brought some things. It won't be anything fancy, but it'll get us through."

She wandered over as he started to chop, seating herself on the edge of the counter to watch. "Do you have a recipe?"

"I don't need one for this," he responded, boiling a pot of water. "I bet you have some baking recipes memorized, too."

Moira nodded, twisting her hair back up into the clip behind her head. He liked it both ways, wild and long around her face or pulled back to reveal the seashell curve of her ears.

"A few. When did you start cooking?" She leaned in to steal a piece of feta from the bowl.

"I dabbled a little before, but I really got into it when I moved to the White Winters," he said, adding the pasta to the water once the bubbles began to roil across the surface. "It gave me a way to fit in there. Being Devon's best friend gave me a pass in a lot of ways, but cooking gave me a purpose."

"It's hard to imagine you there." Moira cocked her head to the side, examining him. "Maybe right after high school, that Jonah, I could see wanting a pack like that. But this Jonah? I can't picture it."

He wanted to tell her that even then, he had chafed against the expectations of the White Winter pack, the brutality expected of him. How he'd found ways to dodge it most of the time, whenever he could. That he'd always been too soft for it.

Something thumped against the outside wall. Moira jumped off the counter, whipping around to look out the window. "What was that?"

It was pitch black outside, the rain clouds blotting out the moon. He strained to listen, but all he heard now was the barrage of the storm. He'd heard something, though. Something moving outside.

"I'm not sure," he admitted, heading for the door. "Wait here."

She scoffed and followed him to the front, grabbing a flashlight from one of the drawers. Jonah braced himself for whatever might be out there and threw the door open, putting himself between the outside and Moira.

Flicking the flashlight on, she shined it around the entrance of the lighthouse, over the sand and the walkway. Nothing. But the hair on the back of his neck rose in warning.

"Wait here, please?" He asked this time. "I'll just check it out and come right back."

Moira bit her lip but nodded. "Fine, but if you're not back in two minutes, I'm coming after you."

Jonah shifted and ran out into the rain, circling the lighthouse. No one lurked in the shadows, but the evidence of their presence was lying in the sand. A broken oar. The handle was cracked in half, probably from striking the side of the lighthouse. That must have been the thump they'd heard. But who had done it?

Mindful of the time ticking away, he circled the lighthouse again until he was confident whoever had been there was gone. Their scent vanished in the direction of the woods. He loped back up to the door where Moira was waiting, her flashlight a beacon. She'd spread a towel on the floor for him and he shook the worst of the water from his fur on it before shifting back.

"What did you find?" Moira asked, still clutching the flashlight. She shut and locked the door behind him.

"Someone was out there," Jonah said, pushing his hair off his face. He was chilled again. "They broke an oar against the lighthouse. Probably just to scare us."

Moira led him in front of the stove to warm up. "Who would do that? Why would someone do that? And how long were they watching us?"

She looked around at the windows, shut but not curtained. Someone could have been peering in them the whole time they were on that couch. The thought rattled Jonah. He'd been so wrapped up in her, he wouldn't have noticed the danger lurking just outside.

"Their trail went off in the woods," he said, gritting his teeth. "Whoever it was, they wanted us to know they'd been here. But why?"

"Do you think it was the same person who vandalized the tree and the shop?" Moira collapsed down onto the couch, but her eyes darted from window to window.

"Maybe. Or the person sleeping here before we started working on this place." They'd asked everyone they could if they knew who was using the lighthouse as a shelter, both in the Rosewood and the Silversand pack, but no one had a clue.

He'd kept the sleeping bag and other supplies in a bag in the closet, just in case they came back and needed it, but again, no one had. Jonah had assumed it was just an unhoused person taking advantage of the empty building, but what if it was something more sinister? If Moira was right, someone was out there trying to cause havoc in the Rosewood and Silversand communities.

"At least we know it wasn't a ghost," Moira said, face pale. "I like scary movies, but this is too real. Trapped in a spooky lighthouse in a storm while some lunatic watches us? I'm never sleeping again."

Jonah didn't want the night's turn to overshadow the moment they'd shared. He fixed them both bowls of food and this time, he sat close beside her on the couch, legs touching.

"Whoever it is, they want to stir up trouble between our packs."

"And you still don't think it's a White Winter?" Moira shook her head, disbelieving. "This is really good, Jonah. I'm impressed. It's almost good enough to make me forget about the pervert running around out there."

He swelled with pride. "Almost? I'll have to step it up next time. And no, I don't think it's a White Winter. All the way out here? They've got enough to deal with right now."

But he wasn't entirely positive that was true. There were some members of the pack that had a vindictive streak. He'd have to reach out to Devon and Beth to be certain.

Moira put her empty bowl down and picked up the flashlight again, knuckles white around it. "What if they come back?"

"I'll keep you safe, Moira. I promise. I won't let anything happen to you." He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, and she melted against him, resting her head on his chest.

As long as they were trapped in the lighthouse, he could pretend she was his. He hoped the storm lasted a long, long time.