Wolf (The Henchmen MC 3)

I'd looked into Wolf. A year ago when Hailstorm decided to work with The Henchmen, I dug deep and tried to find more than the surface information we had already acquired about him. The problem was, his trail was almost non-existent. He didn't have any social media; he didn't seem to go online at all; he paid his bills in cash. Aside from a few arrest records- one for a drunk and disorderly that I found hard to believe. One, because he seemed like the kind of man too in control to get drunk in the first place and two, because, well, how much liquor would it take to make someone as massive as him drunk in the first place? There had been another arrest for aggravated assault when he was in his early twenties. It never went to trial and I knew enough about the crooked law enforcement in Navesink Bank to know that palms had been greased and paperwork and witness statements found themselves 'missing'.

I didn't like being blind. I was usually able to find out just about anything if I dug deep enough for long enough. But with him, I got nowhere. And now I was without the resources to try again to find out more about his family. His mother and especially his father. The only thing I knew about Wolf's dad was that he was a Henchmen under Reign and Cash's father and that the three of them had grown up tight as brothers.

I sighed, climbing out of the bed and shivering against the late fall/ early winter air, grabbing a fresh t-shirt out of Wolf's closet and making my way into the bathroom. I hadn't asked him what happened to my clothes. I don't know why that was. Especially my panties and bra. I made a mental note as I waited for the water in the shower to warm up and I unwrapped my arm, to ask him to return them. Or in lieu of that, buy me new ones. Because, really, it was too freaking cold to be walking around with a draft up your skirt.

I got out of the shower and opened the door to find Wolf standing there, completely overtaking the entire doorway. "Jesus," I yelped, flying back a foot, my hand going to my chest. "Just creeping outside the door?" I asked, feeling defensive.

He ignored me, reaching out to snag my wrist and pulling up my arm to inspect it. "No wrap today," he informed me, dropping it.

I searched his face for a long minute, both of us blocking each other's way. "Everything alright?"

"Fine."

I felt my lips quirk up, ready to throw his own words back at him. "Don't lie. You don't want to talk about it, don't. But don't lie." Ha. So there!

I thought his lip was going to do the twitch thing, but all I found there was a firm line. "Woman..." he growled.

And, well, the impulse control thing failed me again.

"Alright," I snapped, shoving a hand into his chest. "I've had just about enough of your monosyllabic bullshit. I know you like to hide behind it and just shrug and go 'just how I am'. But I think that's cheap. I think you do it so you don't have to let anyone in. But I'm over it. Oh, and while we're on the topic of your linguistic skills, or complete lack thereof, 'woman' is not a complete sentence. You seem to think it relays some deeper meaning, but, newsflash, it doesn't. You're going to have to start using actual sentences with subjects and verbs. You get extra points for a good adjective or adverb here and there."

"You done?" he asked, one of his dark brows raised.

"Actually..." I started, still going full-steam.

"You're done," he corrected, pushing into the small room and leaving me no choice but to back up against the sink counter. I sucked in a breath as he just moved past me, reached in the shower to turn the water on, and went about things like I wasn't there. Meaning, he reached behind his back, snagged his shirt, and pulled it off.

I was totally going to lift my chin up defiantly and storm out of that room, slamming the door for good measure. Totally. That was the plan.

But, well, um... that didn't happen.

I stood there, eyes glued on his strong back, looking over the giant back piece inked there. I felt my mouth fall open slightly as I realized what the image was of: Michael Defeats Lucifer. The archangel Michael, sword raised, wings aloft, was standing on the body of a figure that was more man than demon. It didn't take a genius to know that had particular meaning to him, to his past, to whatever he had done to make his mother's life better, whatever man he had to defeat to make it that way.

He'd chosen wisely, championing himself as Michael in the image, the angel of protection. I barely knew him and that was what he felt like to me. I felt like he could swoop down and fight off any foe that I might be faced with. I felt like he was someone I could trust.

He waited, I guess giving me a chance to excuse myself. When I didn't, he reached for his pants and undid them, letting them fall down his legs, and I realized when I got the blinding image of his firm ass, that he was the kind of man who went commando. I felt my air get caught in my chest, my hand slapping down on the surface of the sink as he slowly stepped into the shower. I should have lifted my gaze. I knew it the moment his body shifted and he was no longer standing with his back to me, but his side. But the movement happened too quickly and I suddenly found myself no longer staring at his muscular ass, but staring at his hard cock. Yes, hard. He was hard. And, like the rest of him, big.