Chapter 4 of Wolf Shield

Keep reading this Paranormal Romance featuring a curvy FMC and a Big Bad Wolf...

📖 Ready? Chapter 4 of Wolf Shield

Fergie’s head was pounding. What the heck happened? She’d been on her way out of that old library after having a super-not-fun time researching old land surveys. It had been late at night. No biggie there. It wasn’t like she’d had anywhere else to go.

Just home to Jessenia, her snarky as f*ck roommate, and to Jeeves her fluffy, but moody rescue cat. Damn feline was going to be the death of her. Shit. She was late feeding him. He hated that. Usually paid her back with a nice surprise on her pillow.

Sigh. What time was it anyway?

“Owie,” she tried to sit up, but it felt like there were a million drums being pounded enthusiastically by a bunch of no talented musicians right inside her head.

Dang. Had she been drinking? She hadn’t felt this bad since that time Jessenia had insisted Margarita Mondays were a thing now. Fergie had jumped all over that.

Besides Margaritas were awesome and had minimal calories, unlike her favorite drink. Who knew Pina Coladas were like the whale of all alcoholic beverages in terms of caloric weight gaining potential?

Alas, she’d vowed Margarita Mondays were never to be heard from again after she’d technically lost her job at Shethler Real Estate because of one such Monday evening. That was like four or five jobs ago, but it still stung.

Crawling into work three hours late hadn’t gone over well with the slimeball Mr. Shethler or his stupid name. Yep, you guessed it. The gross middle aged man had offered her a way to make up for it, but she resigned with a hard pass.

Water under the bridge, as the saying goes. It was all good. Time had healed those wounds, and she had a new job at L-Corp.

Okay, so back to the where-exactly-was-she-now part of the program. Wherever she was, this bed was super comfortable.

Mmm, she ran her hands over the silky sheets and thick, warm comforter. Definitely not hers. The ratty old blanket she’d had since college now sported several tears from too many washes. Her fingers and toes always got stuck in the darn thing.

She should replace it, but priorities. A girl had to have those. For Fergie, when it came to shoes or blankets, the former won every single time. Hands down. Speaking of her shoes.

“Owie,” she moaned again as another wave of pain hit her right between the eyes when she’d tried to sit up too fast.

“Here,” a deep voice said from very near, “easy now.”

A powerful hand supported her lower back, helping her to sit up as she tried to take in her surroundings. It was dark inside the room. Really dark. But still, there was the odd sensation that she was safe.

Hmm. Maybe her scare-o-meter was broken or something. She was quite certain it should frighten her, waking up in a strange place with a massive headache, and feeling altogether rundown. But nope.

In fact, the big, warm hand on her back was rather soothing through the fabric of her blouse. Fergie blinked slowly and turned to look at her host. Her mouth went dry as she drank him in with her eyes.

Big, dark, glossy curls sat atop his head, cerulean blue eyes watched her from a tanned face framed by thick, inky lashes. She had the feeling she knew him. A spring of recognition bubbled up inside of her, and she found herself smiling like an idiot.

Where had she seen him before? It was there in her foggy brain, but it wasn’t clear yet. He didn’t smile back, but she got the impression he was pleased by her reaction. His breathing was slow and steady, with deep, careful inhales, follow by slow, deliberate exhales. She’d never found breathing sexy. Until now.

OMG. She was really losing her grip on reality if the way he breathed turned her on. Where had she picked him up anyway?

Then it hit her. Images of the almost too-handsome man with glowing blue eyes fighting a band of lizard men came rushing through her brain as she started to recall what had happened earlier that night.

“I was attacked,” her scratchy voice reached her own ears, and she winced at the pain it caused her to speak.

“Don’t worry about that now. Here, drink this. It’s water,” the owner of the pleasantly rugged voice handed her a cool glass filled with what she assumed was water.

Fergie was too thirsty to question it. Besides, she trusted him for whatever reason. Tipping back the glass, she drank greedily allowing the icy cold water to soothe her rough throat.

She’d finished the entire thing before she realized it. Her cheeks grew warm with embarrassment as she handed him back the now empty container. Fergie always did have a large appetite whether it be for food, drink, books, or what have you.

“Thank you,” she said, and cleared her throat, “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but can I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” he nodded.

“Who are you? Where am I? Can I call an Uber from here?”

“That’s more than a question.”

“Sorry, but I need answers.”

“Okay, I understand, but you went a little fast back there. Are you okay?” he seemed hypnotized by her mouth.

Fergie bit her lip nervously before she replied, ignoring his question when she did. The real answer was no. She was not okay. Her eyes darted around the room.

It was big. Like bigger than her first apartment. Neat, but lived in. That was nice. She wasn’t much of a neat freak herself. There was a huge entertainment center. A comfy looking couch that she could just imagine being curled up on with a bucket of popcorn and a certain blue-eyed stud.

The curtains were an ugly plaid, but they could be changed. And as for the sports memorabilia that decorated one wall, well, she supposed they could be tidied, but she would leave it. She liked sports herself.

What the f*ck, Fergie? You movin’ in?

She shook her head to stop her dangerously delusional daydreaming. She’d just met the guy. And not under anything even resembling normal circumstances.

“What happened back there?”

The handsome stranger did not smile as he considered his words. She usually appreciated a man who thought before he spoke, but at the moment she just wanted to know if any of what she’d been through was real or if it was some kind of hallucination brought on by toxic fumes from the swamp.

Wishful thinking she supposed. She was far too practical a person for her own good. There was just no way in hell she was going to come to grips with what had happened. Not yet any way.

“Look, let’s start with something easy. My name is Hudson Stormwolfe.”

“I’m Fergie. Where are we?”

“Hello, Fergie. We are in a house that I share with five others, but this is my room. You’re safe here.”

“Am I?” she snorted.

“Of course, you are always safe with me,” he frowned as if it bothered him that she questioned his sincerity.

Oh well, she didn’t have the time or patience to deal with his fragile male ego. Fergie had to get back to her apartment, her roommate, and her cat. It might not be much, but it was her life. She took a fortifying breath and looked down at the bandage on her arm.

Beneath the carefully applied wrappings the scratch she’d received from one of those green-skinned weirdos burned like hell. She bit back a groan and flexed her fingers to test out the tightness of her skin.

Well, that sucked, but a little antibiotic treatment should fix her right up. She tossed the blanket away from her legs more determined than ever to get home via the local urgent care facility as soon as possible.

She might need stitches, she thought with a shudder. Fergie did not do needles, which was why even though she was a fan of body art, she did not have a single tattoo or piercing anywhere on her frame. She compensated for it the best way she knew how, with expensive designer shoes of course.

Why would a woman, especially one her size, want to walk on ridiculously tall, skinny heels? To that annoying question Fergie had one standard answer:

Life’s short, bitches, make sure your heels aren’t.

Speaking of heels. This was only the second time she’d worn the Pigalle Follies from an older, but still classic Christian Louboutin line. She’d discovered the red patent leather babies by chance at a new second-hand shop in Morris County. And they were just her size.

One look down her body had Fergie letting loose a shriek that would have made a banshee proud. Something only she could achieve, according to her late paternal grandmother, Nana McAndrews.

Her Irish side tended to run a bit to the fantastical, whereas her Italian blood had her moods running hotter than all the levels of hell in Dante’s Inferno. That last bit was according to her father and step-monster. She didn’t hate her dad’s wife. She just didn’t like her either.

“What is it? Are you injured?” Mr. Tall and Growly dropped to his knees beside the bed and ran his large hands over and under her blouse and torn skirt.

His hands brushed down her legs, removing the cause of her upset, mainly the scuffed beyond repair red heels, and managed to turn her mind to other small bits that needed some attention. She assumed he was checking for breaks and bruises, but Fergie could not stop the direction of her wayward, and entirely lustful, thoughts.

A strange, tingly sensation started in the pit of her stomach as his long, callused fingers continued searching her limbs for injury. Of course, their hurried movement slowed once his eyes met her heavy-lidded gaze. His hands slowed as they reached mid-thigh. That maddening, sizzling touch changed from perfunctory to passionate.

Exciting her as he drew little circles over her suddenly too warm flesh. Fergie bit her lip to stop herself from groaning out loud. When was the last time someone, anyone, had touched her like that?

He dropped his hands as if he’d been burned and turned around. She watched the muscles in his back ripple as he sucked in great, big gulps of air. Like he’d just run a marathon or something. Fergie was having a hard time herself. She nearly swayed right off the bed. Would have to, had he not turned around, steadying her before she could topple like the mass of boneless woman she currently was.

Holy shit, was that hot. Hudson Stormwolfe, was that his real name, was more man than anyone she’d ever met. She seemed to lose all train of thought at his sudden nearness. Dang. What had she been doing? Oh, right. Her heels.

“Those shoes cost me two weeks salary,” she was so busy concentrating on just remembering how to breathe, that she didn’t care at all about how shallow she sounded.

“I see, I’m sorry about that,” he said and his gravelly voice sent little shocks of awareness right through to her core, “well, besides the shoes, does anything else hurt?”

“My arm is still throbbing.”

“It does? I cleaned the wound before I bandaged it. I also applied some healing salve, but you should know, it could still be infected.”

“Ugh, I was afraid of that,” she frowned down at the bandage.

Crap like that always happened to her. She had the worst immune system. Anytime she caught the slightest little cold it was a month in bed or else she never got better. She couldn’t even imagine what this would do to her. She looked up and found herself captivated by his intense stare.

The man had the craziest blue eyes she ever saw, not crazy like mental, just really, really blue. Like little pools of the purest water and boy did she really want to dive right in. She blinked and tried to shake herself from the spell he seemed to weave so effortlessly around her.

“Thank you so much for all your help, but I have to go, I need to stop at urgent care.”

“Urgent care?”

“Yeah, you know, one of those budget clinics that’ve been popping up all over the state.”

“Look, if you aren’t feeling well, I’d rather you stayed-”

“No, really, I couldn’t,” she blushed, “it’s just a scratch.

A knock at the door brought both their heads up and Fergie was grateful for the respite. Any more meaningful staring and she’d be volunteering to strip her clothes off for the man.

“Come in,” bit off Hudson, but she could tell he was not happy about it. Even odder was the way he covered her back up with the blanket.

Fergie looked up and her mouth dropped open. Was everyone here gorgeous? Hudson snarled and looked from her to the visitor and back again with one eyebrow raised.

“Hello, my name is Byram. I’m a friend of Storm’s here,” he said to her as he entered the light.

He was tall and lithe with light brown hair combed away from his almost too handsome face. The man was positively pretty she thought a little enviously. He seemed to know that and he smiled a bit sheepishly.

“Byram,” Hudson nodded at him expectantly.

“I’ve come to inspect the wound. If I may?”