Claws & Crochet

Part 47

WARNER

"What are you doing?" I choke, snatching my hands back even as they beg to stay where she put them.

Zoey glances down at her dress, a smile creeping over her lips as she eyes the black prints now marring the pristine white fabric. A snort escapes, then the next moment, she's doubled over in laughter.

The happy sound rings through the shop, bouncing off every surface.

I want to laugh with her. I want to moan at the loss of her perfect dress. I want to drag her into my arms and kiss her senseless.

Instead, I hold myself back because I'm still not sure where we stand. Clearly, Zoey isn't terrified of me, which I take as a good sign. But that doesn't tell me much. It's completely possible she convinced herself that night was a dream or a fear-induced hallucination. If that's the case, I'll have to decide if the best option is to just let her continue living a normal life, oblivious to what my truth is.

Zoey calms down, shaking her head at me as she walks back to the bike I was working on. I follow, a step behind.

"Sit," she instructs me, and I drop down on the low crate I was using as a seat. I expect her to grab the greasy stool, but she ignores it to come stand in front of me. I have to look up at her from this angle, and my eyes are level with the destructive handprints.

"I can't believe . . .your dress." I mourn the loss. Laundry isn't one of my skillsets, usually just proud of myself when I separate lights and darks, but I still know that grease and white clothing don't mix. It's a shame, no matter how good the shape of my hands look clasping her chest.

"Don't worry about it. I got it from a thrift shop, and I think it shrunk last time I washed it. Half the buttons are ready to pop off."

Now that she mentions it, I do notice how the material strains more where it covers her chest.

The sight makes me want to moan for a whole other reason.

"Warner?" A cool finger hooks under my chin, tilting my head up until I meet her warm brown eyes. "Werewolves?"

No selective amnesia then.

I clear my throat. "Yep. Werewolves."

She grins down at me, the expression sheepish and beautiful enough to make my heart hammer loud in my ears.

"I'm sorry I went robot on you."

"Robot?" I hesitantly return her grin.

"Yeah. I had some misguided autopilot setting to think stabbing myself was a good idea."

The reminder of Zoey holding that knife covered in her own blood has the happy emotions in my chest fizzling out. My eyes flick to her arm where the stitches are visible. At least I'm not picking up any scent of infection.

Yeah, werewolves can smell that.

"You were scared."

"I short circuited. A robot that lost its batteries. Completely shut down. You were scared, and I'm sorry." Her fingers play with the hair that curls on my forehead. The movement is so soothing, I almost lose my train of thought. But I catch hold of it.

"You're apologizing to me?"

How could she think there's anything she needs to say sorry for? I'm the one who fucked up.

"Yes, and I brought you an apology gift."

"Zoey, stop. You don't . . ."

But just like the night I met her, she ignores me as she rummages through her bag. And, once again, she pulls out some kind of crochet creation.

"It's a scarf." She leans forward, laying the item around my neck. As far as scarves go, it's not the best. The ends barely fall past my shoulders and one side still has a crochet hook stuck in it.

Not that I care.

"I love it."

"Liar." She smiles and goes to take it back, but I lean away from her, wanting to keep the gift. Zoey slaps my chest lightly, laughing as she does. "Stop it. I'm not done with it. I just started this morning when I realized I needed to apologize, but I didn't think my crochet speed should dictate when I tell you I'm sorry."

I sit up straight again, letting her remove the half-scarf.

"You keep saying you're sorry, but you don't need to. How you reacted . . . that's reasonable. I should be happy you didn't try drowning me in holy water."

Zoey tucks the craft back into her bag before looking at me.

"You're right. I need to stop saying sorry." Her fingers land on my lips when I go to speak. "And I need to start saying thank you."

A gentle growl sneaks out before I can stop it, rumbling against her hand. Her mouth opens with a little gasp, but she swallows and pushes on.

"We were in danger that night, and you protected me." Zoey bends at the waist, bringing her face close to mine and threatening to overwhelm me with her intoxicating scent. "Thank you, Warner."

Fingers drop away, only to be replaced by her sweet lips. She brushes a gentle kiss against my mouth at first. A happy hum spills out of me, which seems to give her permission to lean forward and wrap her arms around my neck. To straddle my lap.

To drive me fucking wild.