Wesley James

Nodding while sliding into the seat opposite his. “Do you send flowers often?” She muttered, flipping through the pages. Someone like Anya may receive them, but it’d been a first for Katja.

“T’you?” He was watching her now. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t say anything.” She murmured, looking at him carefully. 

“Mm.” A small grunt, light eyes a little softer as they met hers. Brows furrowed a little, studying her. “Hungry?”

Arman could feel heat and smell smoke. It was like perfume. He wandered out of the living room into the kitchen and found Wes there. The big blond werewolf didn’t talk much. “You a firefighter?” He was less distracted by the shirtlessness than he used to be. Hanging out in a werewolf pack house kind of required you to be used to clothing being optional. Not that he minded. He wasn’t that into shirts either. He grabbed a slice of watermelon off the counter and enjoyed the view.

Smelled like fire and Bash. Wes didn’t have to look up to know the stranger who lurked around was approaching. Said his name was Arman, went by Keifer. Since he didn’t invade the space or stare too much, Wes didn’t have much interest in getting him away; especially since he seemed to make Bash happy. “Yes.” Stormy eyes continued to watch and judge as he washed away the bloody grime from his job. Blackened flesh rippled with the motion, the marks on his chest, back, neck never fading away. Permanent reminders of torture. “What gave it away?” He could try to make conversation.

Nothingcould be said, but the lingering stench in the air of pain, as he kept his face turned from her. The Alpha stood up, back rigid, lips pursed in their usual expression. Listening to the confession – Katja knew the feeling. The rigid scars, all in a line along her back stood as proof of what she endured. Nodding curtly, acknowledging what he’d said, she sighed, the sound breaking the silence. “You will not be able to for a long time.” Perhaps the truth hurt. But the scars she lived with, while never forgiven, became the thing she accepted she could never part with. Keeping her stance by the entrance to his bedroom should he ask her to leave, leaning against the wooden door. “Wesley, look at me.”

“Figured.” No other words were offered, the scarred man a little too broken to offer something else, something more. It was fine, really. He would manage. But Wes did look at his alpha, the woman he had laid with in feverish lust and heat. Offered no further words.