Filthy rich werewolves by Taylor Caine novel Chapter 5

I’m not sure why I invited the strange wolf to my home.

I’m obviously grateful. He saved me from what would’ve been rape or death or worse. But I usually don’t involve myself with other wolves these days.

Since my release, I’ve stuck to myself.

So why did I welcome him? Gratitude, sure.

More likely… because I’m lonely. So lonely it’s hard to imagine what I’m living for. But in those brief seconds this stranger risked his life for mine…it was like someone saw something in me. Something worth saving.

He glances at me sharply while I fumble with the lock. I open the door and hold it open for him to enter.

They call it a ‘studio apartment,’ but it feels more like a box. A cramped space with just the essentials—a bed, table, kitchen and bathroom.

I watch him carefully, his expression giving nothing away. I gesture to his still bloody hands. “If you want to wash up…”

He wordlessly moves to the bathroom and closes the door behind him.

Chris is a monster. The wolves that were with him…they’re no better.

If I was still an attorney, I would’ve put them all in prison for their crimes or have them punished by pack law. But life had taught me that the innocent rarely prevailed.

I repeat my mantra in my head.

It’s okay. You’re okay.

Today is a new day.

The man steps out of the bathroom. His brows furrow as he looks at me.

I can only imagine what he sees.

My clothes are torn. I’m dirty and bruised. My hair’s a mess and I’m sure my face is too. The back of my hair is caked and I’m pretty sure I’ve got a gash from when Chris smashed my head into a wall.

He sniffs deeply. “You’re not human.”

It’s a statement, not a question.

“No. But I’m not like you,” I tell him the truth. “My wolf is gone.”

His eyes widen, the most emotion I’ve seen from him.

His gaze travels over me, probably cataloging all my injuries. If I could shift, my body could heal instantly. But without my wolf…

I am weak. Fragile. Human.

“I’m fine,” I say. “I’ll heal.” Eventually…

“Are you hungry?” I ask. “I don’t have much, but I have dry rice and pasta—“