Here Noah sat. The new guy.
He laughed at jokes, smiled, and nodded, while inside him grew colder. He didn’t share their history. They welcomed him, but he’d never truly be a part of their group. Based on the flirty looks Eric sent his way, Noah wasn’t the only gay wolf here either, though he felt no pull of attraction.
Eventually, he made his excuses and left the table. The others resumed their chattering as though he’d never been there. Maybe he hadn’t.
Maybe the past few weeks were all a dream, brought on by Paul’s insistence about wolves needing a pack.
Right now, Noah didn’t need a pack.
He needed Slade.
No one followed on his trip back to the house. He let himself in. Though he knew Slade wasn’t there, he searched anyway.
Instead of a shower, he took a nice, long soak in the old clawfoot tub, resting his head on the back. This could all be his, this pack, this way of life. His teachers even mentioned more schooling, something Noah thought out of reach when Slade first mentioned college.
He should be happy. And grateful. Hell, he finally had a family. He felt lonely instead. Where was Slade? What was he doing? Where would he go when the curse finally dragged him away?
The curse. Soon, Slade would say goodbye and drive out of Noah’s life.
For good. Never to return. For Noah never to see Slade again, hold him, make love to him. Slade, who’d found Noah, took care of him, maybe even loved him.
Though he no longer wore a wolf’s fur or ran through the forest with a pack, Noah tipped his head back and howled.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sladesatatatable with Sheriff Mac. Things were going well, he supposed. He’d delivered Noah to a pack and also found a remnant of family. What more could a guy ask for? He’d kept his promises, so why feel so bad? Maybe doing good deeds unnerved him, being unfamiliar territory.
Also, the clock ticked. Soon, he’d have to go. Before the snows really set in. Before he started barfing up his guts.
Before he became even more attached to Noah.
The uneasy feelings grew the longer Slade sat eating breakfast. Bad eggs? Old coffee? He’d had worse of both. Not much time left before the curse made itself known.
Mac trailed off on plans for expanding the compound, face grave. “What’s wrong? You quit listening to me about eight ‘uh-huhs’ ago.”
“I don’t know. I kinda feel sick. I’ll be back.” Slade dashed past fellow diners into the men’s room. Vacant. Good. He stood at the sink, splashing cold water on his face. Yeah, much better.
A man opened the door, nodded in the mirror, and entered a cubicle. An invisible fist slammed into Slade’s gut. He doubled over, gasping for breath. What the fuck? No injuries. Appendix out at twelve. Gallbladder, maybe? He held his side, pretending to study himself in the mirror as the man washed his hands and left the room.
The moment the door closed, the pain subsided. Maybe Slade ought to visit Sam or ask Mac about a trusted human doctor.
Okay. Better now. He left the bathroom, striding toward the table where Mac waited with concern on his face. Halfway there, the pain hit again. This time, the tattoo on Slade’s side burned. An allergic reaction to the ink? He retreated to the bathroom and lifted his shirt. No redness. No swelling, no pain. What the fuck?
Taking a deep breath, determined to get to Mac, he noticed precisely when the pain started and side-eyed the nearest table. The stranger from the bathroom sat with two other men, one little more than a boy. They paid Slade no attention, the two facing Slade’s table staring intently at Mac. The uniform, maybe? Were they wary around a sheriff? The looks on their faces didn’t show fear—more like disgust. Hatred. Maybe people he’d jailed before.
The other one, younger than the first two, wore the resigned expression of a younger Slade when his mother dragged her brood to church, and he’d rather be anywhere else. Something familiar about the kid too. His dark blue eyes brought Noah to mind, though this kid couldn’t be more than mid-teens, with hair a dirty blond instead of Noah’s lighter waves. The older men probably appeared in a dictionary under “average.” Mid-forties, clothing blending with folks at other tables.
Rural camouflage.
Slade dropped down into the seat opposite Mac.
“You all right?” Mac asked, nostrils flaring a bit.
Nothing unusual about an alpha wolf using his nose to tell someone’s emotional state. The pain lingered, fainter now. “The three dudes at the table by the restrooms. Know them?”
If Mac looked at the men, Slade couldn’t tell. Damn. He must excel at surveillance. “No. Judging by their accents, they’re not from around here either. Why?”
“Something about them. I don’t know. Whenever I get close, I start hurting.”