Within minutes, he was done.
He grabbed his plate and pushed to his feet.
“Are you done?” Hansel asked, glancing up at him.
“Yeah,” Boaz said quickly, already turning away but Hansel reached out to grasp his arm.
“Can you take some food to old Larson?” he asked. “He’s not feeling great tonight.” His eyes flicked back toward Alexander, narrowing slightly. “I was going to do it, but I think I should stay here… keep an eye on things.”
“Yeah, sure,” he said eagerly, relief washing over him.
He needed an excuse to delay going to his cabin. He wasn’t ready to meet Alexander for his feeding. Tonight he felt raw, hypersensitive. He needed a minute to steel himself. Build walls. Keep his desires in check.
Boaz made his way to the back and put together a plate for the old werewolf. As he worked, he felt like he was being watched. Again.
Boaz shifted nervously, resisting the urge to turn around. He didn’t need to look to know who it was. He felthim.
The second he was done, Boaz headed for the exit.
He let out a slow breath as he stepped out into the night and crossed the fields toward the row of pack houses a distance away. Just as he stepped onto the paved path that led up to the first house, he felt the heavy sensation along his back return. Boaz glanced over his shoulder, expecting he’d see Alexander standing there.
But the path behind him was empty.
He shook off the feeling and turned back to the house, stepping up to the door. He knocked and waited, shifting the plate slightly in his hands.
A few minutes went by. Nothing happened. Boaz lifted his hand to knock again when a slow shuffling from inside and a long, weary sigh broke the silence.
“I’m coming in,” Boaz called, pushing the door open before the old man could take another step.
“I was almost there,” Old Larson grumbled, leaning heavily on his cane.
The thin, silver strands of his hair stuck out in every direction. His cheeks were flushed a deep ruby red, puffed slightly with irritation, making him resemble a grumbling old cartoon character brought to life.
He shuffled toward his chair, each step slow, the dull thud of his cane against the wooden floor echoing through the quiet room.
“Damn rascal has no patience whatsoever,” he muttered under his breath.
Boaz bit back a smile as he closed the door behind him.
“I brought your food,” he said, stepping further inside. “Should I bring it over?”
“What do you think?” Larson shot back without looking at him. “I can’t eat it from all the way over here.”
“Right.”
Boaz crossed the room and set the plate down, dragging the small coffee table closer so the old man could reach it easily.
When he straightened, his hands pressed briefly against his lower back as he took in the space around him.
The cabin was warm and lived-in. A bookshelf lined one wall, stacked with old, weathered books. A few chairs sat near the now cold fireplace.
Boaz took a step toward the bookshelf, curiosity tugging at him.
A throat cleared behind him.
He turned to find Old Larson staring at him expectantly, one brow raised.
“Aren’t you going to leave?” Larson asked.