Personal Demon
Page 76

He crouched before the fridge and fished out bottles. As he turned, I resisted the urge to look away and let my gaze slide over him.
“You look…amazing.”
He arched his brows in genuine surprise, then lifted the bottles. “You’re supposed to say that after I get you drunk.”
“Am I?”
He grabbed glasses, sliding the stems between his fingers so he could carry them. “Yes, because then you can blame it on the alcohol. Otherwise you risk inflating an ego that you know needs no help.” He crossed back to me, setting the bottles and glasses on the nightstand. “And may I say in return that you look perfect.”
I looked into his eyes and knew there was no sense lying to myself anymore. I was in love with him. More than that, I loved him. It had nothing to do with what Griffin said—a chaotic man for a chaos-loving demon. Karl knew when I needed to be set on my feet with a sharp word and a kick in the butt, and he knew when I needed someone to look out for me, and coddle me and tell me that I’m perfect.
I wanted to be that for him too. I had the first part down—keeping his ego in check—but I struggled with the second. Cooking him dinner, being there whenever he called, for as long as he wanted to talk, that all came easy.
But complimenting him or even saying, “Thanks, Karl” was different. I’d worked so hard to keep things casual, so afraid of getting hurt that, even now, it was hard to drop my guard and let him know how I felt. I’d have to work on that.
I slid over to make room for him and he handed me a gin and tonic, then he got into bed, propping himself up on the pillows.
“Thank you,” I said. “For the memories.”
His brows shot up. “That sounds disturbingly like a brush-off.”
“You know what I meant. Your memories. The ones you…” I struggled for a word. “Projected, I guess. I didn’t know I could pick that up.”
“Neither did I, but it seemed worth a try.”
He lapsed into silence, his gaze going distant.
“I won’t pry,” I said.
“Hmmm?”
 
“If you’re worried I’m going to ask about those early memories, I won’t. I know you were just trying to find something to distract me.”
“Ah.”
More silence. He swirled the Scotch in his glass, frowning at it.
“Yes, you need ice.”
A bark of a laugh. “No, that’s not what I’m thinking. Good try, though. And ice would be nice.”
“See? I wasn’t reading your mind. I was predicting future thoughts. Even better.”
A tiny smile. “As you are, apparently, still building your mind-reading skills, I’ll have to tell you what I’m thinking. It is about that vision. I should tell you about it. Or maybe not so much should as want.”
He went quiet again.
“You wanted to join the Pack,” I said. “When you were young.”
A slow nod. “Ironic that now, almost forty years later, I’m in it and uncomfortable with the idea.”
“The instinct probably felt stronger at that age.”
“At the time, it seemed obvious. That’s how werewolves should live—as part of a Pack, growing up with Pack brothers, building a home and defending your territory. I blamed my father for dragging me from place to place, living in rooming houses and hotels. I blamed him and I hated myself for it.”
I knew how much Karl had loved his father. Shortly after we’d met, I’d made the mistake of commenting on a father who’d raise his son to be a thief, and it had been the first time I’d seen Karl’s composure ripple. He’d been as quick to his father’s defense as I’d been when he’d commented on a mother who set her daughter up with blind dates. After that, we’d come to an unspoken agreement: taking potshots at one another was fine, but our parents were off-limits.
Karl’s father had raised him as he thought best, into the only life he knew for a lone werewolf.
“That afternoon I showed you was the only time I actually saw someone from the Pack,” Karl said. “We were in Vermont, working, at a resort, and the Pack arrived for a vacation. I only caught that glimpse before my father whisked us out of town. I don’t think I’d ever been so angry with him. He’d always made them sound like monsters. That’s why we had to keep moving—he said they’d kill us if we stayed. But seeing Jeremy and Antonio…” He shook his head. “They looked like ordinary young men, joking and teasing and hanging out. I saw that and I wanted it so badly. But, when I got older, I started to resent them because they kept us from settling down.”
“From holding territory.”
“Testosterone kicking in, I suppose. Joining them wasn’t as important as showing them we weren’t afraid.
When I was sixteen, my father came to the motel we were staying in and told me we had to leave because a few Pack wolves were in town. But that day, I decided I wasn’t going anywhere. I thought…” A bitter laugh. “I thought all my father needed was some encouragement. If I forced him to stay, he’d either see that his fears were ungrounded or he’d learn to fight for his place in the world. So I used the one stalling tactic I knew would work. I’d been Changing for a few months, and at that stage, it’s very difficult. When the urge comes, it can’t be denied.”
“So you said you had to Change.”
“I did. He took me into the woods behind the motel, and I did my damnedest. Eventually, it started, but even then it didn’t go very far. My father stayed outside that thicket, encouraging me, for probably half an hour.
Then he heard something and told me to stay still. A few minutes later, Malcolm Danvers found me.”
“Jeremy’s father.”
“Malcolm found me, stuck in mid-Change. I don’t know what he would have done, but helping me clearly wasn’t on his mind. I heard my father calling Malcolm, luring him away. As I managed to Change back, I could hear Malcolm taunting my father. He kept trying to convince his two Pack buddies to challenge my father, saying no one would because he wasn’t worth anything—he didn’t have a reputation. Malcolm killed him. Snapped his neck, tossed him aside and went after me. I escaped. There was nothing else I could do, not at that age. Years later, when I was ready, I went back for Malcolm, but it was too late. Someone beat me to him.”