Red in the Blue

Chapter 3

"Holy fucking fuck," I breathed, aware that I was standing open-mouthed in the now-wide doorway, letting bugs in. The man in front of me swallowed, said nothing, his brow knitting together, his loose hand twitching in the space between us. Everything in me slammed toward him, like I would fling myself into him, with a ferocity that scared and infuriated me.

"What the fuck," I said, shaking my head, taking a step back against all my instincts. "What the fuck?"

"I know. It's a lot." His eyes were trailing over my face, that hand inclined just out toward me now, as if to steady me, as he seemed to take me in. He was fucking handsome. He smelled so good.

I stumbled back further into my apartment and scrambled to throw the door closed. My shaking hands didn't push hard enough, and the mechanism caught about a foot from the doorframe to carry it closed slowly the rest of the distance, but he didn't stop it. I stood just on the other side, my heart hammering. Everything in my physical body wanted to touch this stranger more than anything. But everything in my mind, in my soul, said no. I felt angry. I didn't want him here. Who the fuck was he? How the fuck was he here? I lunged toward the peephole again and could see the shape of him still waiting on the other side.

"I know this is all overwhelming," he said lowly, and even through it all I was grateful he wasn't making a spectacle for the neighbors. "I know how you're feeling right now. We have all the time in the world to sort through all that."

Even though he couldn't see me, I shook my head exasperatedly, huffed out a breath, wrung my hands and stepped back from the door, eyes scanning my small apartment for...what? I couldn't get my head around what was going on. My fucking mate? I had never seriously considered stumbling across him, especially with how much I avoided most other werewolves.

"There's no pressure," his voice continued. I felt certain he had one hand on the door, the fingertips poised gently against it. "We can talk about it. There's nothing we can't figure out. But, please—let's do that. Let's talk about it. Lenore—"

I twitched when he used my full name. Nobody called me that. How did he know it? How did he know me? How was he here? My curiosity getting the better of me more than anything else, I leaned back up to the peephole and realized I could hear him softly speaking to someone else, another man. I strained to see who it might be, but the field of vision was too narrow. I swung the door slowly open again, hiding my body behind it, and looked out at them—him, frozen in anticipation, looking at me, and the other man—

"You!" I growled. "What the fuck is this?!"

The guy from the plane. The guy from the café. It was him. His mouth quirked up in a half-apology, his shoulders slumping with guilt as he tried to smile at me.

"I have some explaining to do," my mate cut in, putting a hand up to me again. My mate.

I looked back and forth between them, my head a frantic swarm of overwhelming impulses, no clear thoughts, my body trembling. His eyes trailed down my arm to my jittering hands and he tilted his head just so, in concern. His hand reached for mine.

"Don't fucking touch me," I spit, yanking my hand back, tripping backwards over the threshold of my apartment. "I don't know you. I don't want this," I felt my throat tightening. My tongue felt too big in my mouth, felt furry. I swallowed nothing and choked a gasp. Airport guy averted his gaze, took a step back into the dark again. My mate took a step toward me.

"I'll go, okay?" he said gently, his eyes so soft on mine, his voice so low and steady. My heart dripped down through my ribcage, and I bit down on my too-big tongue. "I'm sorry for how you're feeling right now," he added. "If I'm honest...I thought you would be as relieved to see me—" his voice cut out. He swallowed and stepped back again, away. "I'm going to go, if you change your mind—"

I nodded shakily, haltingly, and reached for the door at the same time he extended what looked like a business card to me. I took it from between his fingers without looking at it, already closing the door. Again, he didn't stop me.

I stood in the kitchen in the light from the table lamp. The TV still droned behind me. Two moths battered against each other and the kitchen ceiling. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears but I pushed it down and listened hard through the door. Low voices, then nothing. Then a light scraping as a note appeared sliding across the faux wood from under the door. Again, a beat of silence. Then the shuffle of footsteps receding. I peered through the peephole and confirmed they were gone. I wanted him back. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to hear his voice forever. I clenched my fists, crumpling the card in my hand. I looked down at it.

It only said "Cade Gage," with a phone number and an email address. White with thin black letters. Probably a pack calling card, vague so humans wouldn't think anything of it. Cade. Cade. My mate.

I stooped to pick up the slip of paper at the crack under the door. In very geometric handwriting that took me a moment to adjust to, it said:

You can't imagine how it felt for me, seeing you. Realizing I had found you. I never imagined it wouldn't be the same for you. I'm sorry. Come to me, when you're ready. I'll be waiting. Eagerly. Like at your earliest convenience. Really. Please.

—Cade