Chapter Seventeen: Haze and Heat

I didn't tell Electra about the hangover clawing at me when I woke in her room, her warm scent still clinging to my shirt. It didn't hit 'til I stumbled back to my own space—head pounding like a war drum, stomach churning from last night's bourbon. Too many shots laced with wolfsbane, that cursed herb we mix into drinks to dull our systems, let us feel the buzz like humans do. One perk of being a werewolf, though—give it a few hours, and my healing would kick the ache out, even with that poison lingering.

I'd been sprawled on my bed an hour, blinds shut, the room dim and cool, feeling sorry for myself. The pack house hummed beyond my door—wolves laughing, Blake's faint cries—but all I could think about was Electra. Her tear-streaked face from last night, her body next to mine, that damn wildflower scent. It was starting to worry me, gnawing at my gut like a warning I couldn't shake.

I needed to talk to someone, but Shauna was off the table—mated to Dylan now, her hazel eyes gone from my corner. Maybe food would kill the loop in my head. I dragged myself up, joints creaking, and shuffled to the dining hall, the hardwood cold under my boots. The air hit me—bacon sizzling, coffee sharp, a faint tang of sage from the kitchen. I grabbed a plate, piling on eggs and crispy strips, and scanned the room. Electra sat across the way, light brown hair loose, green eyes flicking up beside Cade's broad frame.

She waved me over, a quick flash of her hand, but I ducked my head, pretending I didn't see, and dropped into the nearest chair, wood scraping the floor. So much for distraction—her presence burned anyway, a pull I couldn't dodge. They finished fast, her plate half-touched. She stormed out, boots stomping, a storm cloud trailing her. Cade crossed the room, hazel eyes steady, and slid into the seat opposite me, the table creaking under his elbows.

"So, you know what's wrong with my sister?" he asked, voice low but direct, cutting through the hall's hum. "She's been moody as hell this morning."

I shook my head, shoving a forkful of eggs in my mouth, the salt sharp on my tongue. "Nope."

He leaned forward, elbows digging in. "She said you checked on her last night." A pause, then a nod. "Just wanna say thanks, man."

I nodded back, forcing a tight smile, my head still throbbing. "Sure."

He kept staring, hazel eyes narrowing, dissecting me. "So, what do you think was wrong with her?" he blurted, curiosity spilling out.

I met his gaze, his face all angles and suspicion. "Nothing, far as I could tell. Just tired," I said, shrugging, keeping it vague—her tears, my blackout, all buried.

He let out a loud "Hmmm," chin resting on his hand, elbow propped up, studying me like a damn puzzle. "What'd you do after checking on her?" An eyebrow arched, testing me.

His questions grated, scraping my raw nerves. "Went for a run," I said flat, staring him down, daring him to push.

"Funny, though—your scent was strongest at her room," he said, leaning back, arms crossing, a glint in his eye. "Anything you wanna tell me, Kyan? You two've been hanging around a lot lately."

I glared, heat rising. "Don't start this again, Cade. I've been following your damn rule, okay?" No trouble, no screwing up—his leash from months back till chafed.

He stood, chair scraping, and smirked. "Just making sure, Kyan." He walked off, boots thudding, leaving me stewing.

When he was out of earshot, I slammed my fist into the table, the crack echoing. A few wolves—old Clara at the counter, a couple young ones by the window—snapped their heads my way. I glared, eyes flashing, and they turned back fast, forks clinking. Asshole. He'd been lighter since Blake, but that protective streak still had teeth.

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Training that morning was hell, my head spinning like a top, the hangover clinging despite my wolf kicking in. The sparring field smelled of sweat and crushed grass, the sun too damn bright overhead. Cade's voice boomed across it, sharp as a whip. "Kyan! What the hell are you doing? You've botched that move fifty times today—still not right! Try again!"

I groaned, loud and rough, sweat beading down my neck. Should've skipped, stayed in bed with the blinds down. Matt, my partner today, groaned too, his lean frame shifting as we reset—arms locked, stance wide. "Drank too much last night?" he smirked, dark eyes glinting under messy black hair.

"Yeah," I muttered, grunting as we grappled. "Rough few months—got carried away."

He glanced at me, hesitating, something brewing behind that look. "Come out with it," I said, coaxing, my grip tightening.

He broke the hold, stepping back, voice dropping low. "Saw you this morning, slipping out of Electra's room."

My mind screamed fuck. "Listen, nothing happened, I swear," I rushed out, hands up

.Matt raised an eyebrow, sceptical, waiting.

I sighed, wiping sweat off my brow. "She bolted from the party—Shauna shook her head at me, pointed me after her. I followed to her room; she was crying, wouldn't say why. I said I wasn't leaving 'til she talked." I paused, grimacing. "Laid on her bed, passed out drunk. Barely remember getting there."

He nodded, slow, like he was weighing it. "I believe you. Even after seeing you two on that run in the woods last week, and now this—I still buy it. Just... be careful, man."

I nodded back. We reset, muscles straining, Cade's yells fading to noise as I fought through the haze.

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Electra didn't show for our usual run, although we usually ran in the morning before training, her absence a hole I couldn't ignore. I went solo, trudging along the border, the forest quiet—pine sharp, earth damp under my boots. Didn't feel like running, still sluggish, the wolfsbane dragging at my bones. I checked the traps anyway—habit, not duty—steel jaws empty, snares slack. Matt passed me mid-loop, his grey wolf loping easy, a quick nod between us. Nothing stirred, no rogue whiff, just stillness.

After a couple hours, the sun dipping low, I headed back, sweat sticking my shirt to my back. A shower before lunch sounded like salvation—hot water to burn off the day. I stopped dead at my door, Electra's wildflower scent hitting me, fresh, maybe minutes old. Shrugging, I pushed it open, the room dim, curtains drawn tight. A figure sat in the corner chair—wooden, worn, a hand-me-down from my folks.

"Electra?" I asked, squinting into the shadows as she stood, nodding, her silhouette sharpening—cream sweater, jeans, hair loose.

"What are you doing in here?" I said, voice rough, stepping in, the door clicking shut. Weird as hell, her sitting in the dark like some ghost.

She edged closer, hesitating, green eyes catching the faint light. "I wanted to say thanks for checking on me last night," she said, a shy smile breaking through, soft and unsteady.

I rubbed my neck, the ache still there. "Uh, sure, no problem." I paused, frowning. "Could've said it in the hall or something—this is kinda..."

Words died as she stepped up, close—too close—her scent flooding me, wildflowers and warmth. She looked down, shy, then up, nervous. "I, um, wanted to thank you another way," she murmured, and before I could blink, she leaned in, aiming for my lips, her breath brushing my skin.