His Worst Behavior

Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN - STOCKHOLM SYNDROME

Yes, I had kissed him back that night.

We're reaching that part of the story where I'm wondering if I had developed Stockholm Syndrome.

Over the course of the next week, I wasn't so terrified with Roarke. In a way, he kept me on my toes, just enough. I quickly learned that he had a routine - he wasn't the type of man who sat around and relaxed. He always had to be doing something. If he wasn't in his office, he was with me. He shifted in the mornings. He trained with his pack. He ate at certain times.

Foster started invading my mind again. His sudden death, right in front of me. He was my friend - I mean, we argued a lot, but he was my person out on the streets. I didn't have to be alone because of him. I had someone to talk to. I had someone to suffer with during the cold winters. And, he was gone in a flash and I was too busy fighting my own battle to grieve him.

Roarke had noticed my saddened behavior. He continuously asked me what was wrong, but I knew better than to mention another man in front of him. Even though Foster was dead, the jealousy would still be there with Roarke. He was too possessive.

So, I played off my sadness as loneliness, which he soon believed because he was gone every day for several hours, leaving me with only Maurice. She spent the majority of her time cooking and cleaning. 

One morning, I headed to the kitchen after a hot shower, pulling my damp hair into a bun. When I turned the corner, I slowed my pace at the sight of Roarke. He was seated at the table, hunched over without a shirt on, grunting in pain. I could tell by his sweat and the redness of his skin that he had just shifted.

His dark eyes lifted, meeting mine. "You slept late."

I frowned, then glanced at the time. It was already noon. That explained why I felt so energized and hungry.

Roarke grunted again.

"Uh, are you okay?" I asked, hesitantly. "Where's Maurice?"

"She will be here shortly," he said, roughly. "Come rub me." It wasn't a question. I had quickly learned that Roarke hardly ever asked - he commanded. I wasn't going to argue with him and I could see that he was in pain. I walked over and stood behind his chair, placing my hands on his warm shoulders. "I'm all knotted up."

My eyes drifted across his broad shoulders. "Where are the women that usually do this?"

"Just rub me," he said, sounding irritated. I started rubbing his muscles, searching for knots and tightness. His skin felt hot on my fingertips. There were a couple of alarming scars on his skin, but I didn't dare question him about them. He kept his head dropped, his forearms resting on his thighs. "I asked them not to come."

I tensed. "Oh, the women?" 

"Yes," Roarke said, wincing when I located a knot by his shoulder blade. I wasn't an expert at massages, but I felt like I was doing an okay job. "I don't like them touching me."

"But, they help you - "

"You're doing just fine," he interrupted, flatly. "I prefer you." I bit my bottom lip, shifting on my feet. His muscles relaxed underneath my fingertips, his shoulders hunching further forward. The silence was awful. Deadweight. I was tempted to break it, but he started speaking again. "You get me in knots."

"How do I?" 

"Because, I'm trying to be patient and gentle with you," Roarke said, his voice intimate. "Ever since you tried to kill yourself. I'm trying." He lifted his head and rolled his shoulders back, his muscles shifting underneath my hands. "But, you will soon realize that wolves aren't gentle creatures. It's not in our nature."