Page 20 of Wanted

Maybe.

Her scent is different. Human, sure, but not wholly homo sapien. It’s odd and yet, it still calls to my wolf. He’s convinced she belongs to us and that she’s one of us.

You’re defective. No wolf of worth would want to mate with you.

I shake off my father’s words to focus on the task at hand. I don’t even know why I showed up at this woman’s motel room. She shouldn’t be any of my concern. But after she left the bar last night and I finished up with my business there, something told me to hang back for a while.

I did and was able to read the lips of one of the security guys at the bar.

They had plans to visit her motel room. Apparently, whatever reason that brought her to the bar that night granted her some negative attention. It had them on edge and they were planning to kidnap her over it.

All I knew is that she was in danger and I had to stop it.

Why? I still can’t answer that.

I make a right into the long driveway that leads to Cynthia’s house. I bring the truck to a stop behind an old, rusty Oldsmobile in the driveway.

The one-story house is little more than a fancy shack. With its taped windows and shingles hanging off of the roof. No one would suspect the owner prefers her home this way.

A tap on my arm draws my attention. My wolf whines, which he’s done every time she touches me or vice versa.

“Is this it?” she asks.

I watch her lips. Partially out of obvious necessity but also because I can’t help it. My stomach aches with the desire to hear her voice. Is it as melodious as the movement of her lips make it seem?

It’s been years since I had such a strong desire to hear something. Over the years, the memories of the sound of my mother’s voice and the other members of my pack faded away.

I long ago gave up any hope or desire to hear anything other than the sound of my alpha’s voice or that of my and my wolf’s thoughts in my mind.

It’s not my responsibility to want anything for myself.

“Yes,” I finally reply.

She glances down to undo the seat belt, but her lips keep moving. She looks back up at me expectedly.

I guess she asked another question, but I didn’t catch it. I hate that I didn’t.

“What?” I ask and make sure to focus as she restates her question.

“Who is Cynthia?”

“A friend,” I answer before getting out of the truck. I round the front and move to her side.

She startles when I pull the door open for her. When I hold my hand out for her to take, she hesitates. The questions are evident in the expression on her face. A face I have a hard time keeping my eyes off of.

And it has nothing to do with needing to read her lips.

The entire time she slept in my truck, I had to squeeze the steering wheel with both hands to keep from reaching over and pushing one of the loose strands of hair that fell free of her bun, out of her face. I wanted to trail the tips of my fingers over the skin of her jaw just to see how she would respond.

Now, as she places her hand in mine to help her down from the truck, I force myself not to hold on for too long or too tightly. The urge to trace the inside of her wrist with my thumb overcomes me.

I tamp down the strange sensation.

Emery Clarke—that’s her name. I discovered it while bribing the kid who worked the motel’s front desk overnight. The son of a bitch gave me her first and last name, motel room number, date and time of check-in and checkout for less than fifty dollars.

I was tempted to put his head through the wooden desk for being so careless with her information.

So what if his carelessness was my gain since it allowed me to get into her room with ease.