Alistair’s lips pressed into a thin, hard line as he watched her. His eyes—big, thickly lashed, and the blue of the deepest ocean—seemed to exert a gravitational pull that she had to struggle to resist. And she would keep struggling, Brie thought as she collected herself as best she could. Because she was reasonably certain that Alistair was not thinking “Please, hurl yourself at me right this instant,” no matter what his eyes looked like..
“Miss Fox,” he said, his deep, cultured voice making a formal address sound more like a lover’s endearment.
“Mr. Locke,” she replied, her lips curving up into a small smile despite herself. He couldn’t be much older than she was, early thirties maybe, but he’d never addressed her by her first name. The combination of his British accent and his old-fashioned manners fascinated her. It was like meeting a character from a Jane Austen novel right outside her door.
She’d certainly pictured him in breeches enough times.
Alistair inclined his head and hesitated. Brie imagined he was trying to decide whether to continue outside and risk actual conversation with her, or simply slink back into his apartment and wait for her to leave. Her smile faded in the face of the usual hurt and confusion. She wasn’t some troll, and as far as she knew her conversational skills were just fine. So what was his problem? For about the millionth time, Brie wished she could take this ridiculous attraction, light it on fire, kick the ashes away and move on with her Alistair-free existence. He was probably like this with everyone, she told herself. The man never had company that she’d seen. And some people simply didn’t like other people. But it got harder all the time not to take his repeated snubs personally. They were neighbors. She was low-key, neat, didn’t throw wild parties, never blocked the driveway, and had never reacted to his presence by turning into a slobbering idiot. Despite all that, all she generally had to do was say hello to get him to bolt.
So she found herself shocked when Alistair shut the door behind him, locked it and continued speaking to her of his own volition.
“And where are you off to before the storm, Miss Fox? Somewhere safer, I hope.”
TWO
Alistair had promised himself he wouldn’t get this close to her, but surely a walk to the garage was safe enough.
Though of course, nowhere with Brienne Fox would be completely safe, he thought. At least, not where he was concerned. The woman had no idea how appealing she was. How much he wanted to explore every inch of that curvy little body with his lips, his tongue.
His teeth.
That last impulse was the most worrisome. It had been a long time since a woman had stirred his senses this way—if one ever had. No matter what he tried to tell himself to rationalize it all away, some deep, dark part of himself kept quietly insisting that Brienne was different. Singular. Which would explain why he was compelled to spend an unreasonable portion of every evening simply breathing in her scent, which seemed to permeate every nook and cranny of the house, and wishing he could just...roll around in it. Preferably with her.
Frustrated, Alistair forced the unwanted thoughts away. He had good reasons for staying a solitary wolf, and he had no intention of endangering anyone...no matter how mouthwatering she might be.
“I’m just headed to the grocery store, actually,” Brienne said, blissfully unaware of the heated images cascading through his thoughts. “You?”
“I have a few last-minute things to pick up. Nothing more,” he replied. Such a casual way to put it, Alistair thought, smirking at the dark humor in the moment. Brienne was talking about buying milk and bread to weather a storm. He was talking about making final preparations to take on an enemy that had been snapping at his heels for years.
It wouldn’t be long now. He could scent trouble on the wind, pressing in all around him. Owain was close by, searching. This time, he would allow his brother to find him...and somehow, he knew that the end of their long battle would come during this storm. It didn’t just provide convenient cover to avoid human attention, it was dramatic in a way that would suit Owain—howling wind, blinding snow, and a bloody crescendo.
Alistair often wished his brother had decided to channel his impulses differently and just become an actor instead of a psychopath. In the meantime, he would rather not give Owain another weapon to use against him. Enough people had been punished for earning his affection.
Alistair drew in a deep breath and opened the front door for Brienne, catching the scent that had slowly been driving him mad for months now—vanilla and apricot, a breath of summer on a blustery winter day.
“Thanks,” Brienne said, the look she gave him bemused. It would be, he supposed. Chivalry was basically dead these days, but old habits died hard. And his were very old indeed. Old enough to terrify a beautiful young thing like her.
“Of course,” Alistair said, hoping his voice sounded steadier than he felt as he stepped out after her.
“My first real nor’easter,” Brienne said, her tone as warm as it always was when she tried to speak to him. “I’m not sure whether to be excited or worried.”
She seemed to be both, which didn’t surprise him. Their longest encounter to date, shortly after she’d moved in, had involved Brienne chattering happily about the “adventure” of moving to this small Northern town from the sunny Florida coast where she’d been raised. She seemed to carry that sunlight with her, he thought. The woman was so damnably inviting. What puzzled Alistair was why she continued to try and initiate contact with him when he was anything but. He was an unsociable creature who’d spent too long focused on honor, duty, and nothing else. He was under no illusions about his meager appeal to someone like her. Most women seemed to sense his otherness and steered clear.
And yet here she was again.
Fascinated despite himself, Alistair fell into step beside her, letting his eyes rake her from head to toe when she looked away. Brienne’s beauty was striking each time he saw her. She’d twisted up the loose curls of her honey-blond hair into a bun, though a few obstinate tendrils had already escaped to frame the perfect oval of her face. Alistair’s gaze lingered on the pretty pink rosebud lips, the pert little nose, and the eyes, wide and an arresting shade of forest-green that quickly returned to him. He already knew the body that was hidden beneath her winter coat was perfect, small-waisted and amply curved in all the right places. He’d admired it often enough from afar.
Not to mention imagined it enough in his unoccupied moments.
Alistair didn’t realize he hadn’t responded to her until she tried again, her voice taking on a nervous edge that he knew he’d caused. Good, he thought. She ought to be nervous around him.
“So do you think it’ll be bad? The storm, I mean? The weather people seem to think we’re going to get dumped on, but they’re wrong at least half the time.”
“I think they’re right this time,” Alistair said. He could feel the approach of the storm deep in his bones, could smell it on the cold breeze. They would indeed get hit. One storm among hundreds he’d experienced, and one more he would spend without the warmth of his pack to surround him. He let himself wonder, just for a moment, how they were before pushing the thoughts aside. They were safe, according to his last conversation with Edwin. His nephew was doing a good job acting as Alpha in his stead, but lately, he’d begun pressing Alistair to come back. Edwin was increasingly insistent that with Alistair now healed, they could fight off whatever army Owain could muster. He was almost tempted...until he looked at his scars. And remembered the bodies—the friends—they’d had to burn.
Alistair’s guess had been right—his brother hated him even more than he wanted control of the pack. As long as that stayed true, he would stay in this self-imposed exile and keep this the way it always should have stayed.
Between the two of them.
“Well, hopefully the power will stay on,”