Comfort the Wolves

1. Petals and Paint

Her door was painted red, the shiny, sticky red of the old altars. There were so many layers of paint that the wood didn't feel solid when he knocked.

Ivan stepped back a respectful distance and waited.

The landing was well lit, with windows on either side of the hall. Instead of brightening the old apartment building, the light seemed to dwell on its lesser points: the grime in the carpet, the cracks in the wall, the chips in the paint. At least the windows ventilated the worst of the tobacco smoke.

Ivan checked the numbers on the side of the door: 312. Sure enough. And he could hear a record scratching a garbled choral piece inside, so the lady was definitely home.

He knocked again, more insistently.

"For the love of heaven," a woman grumbled from within.

The gramophone's needle scratched a sudden end to the choir, and Ivan heard tired footsteps stumbling to the door.

Her scent grew stronger as she approached, pressing over the smell of smoke and paint. Ivan braced himself. The door swung open to a dim apartment and a woman in a yellow dress.

"What now?" she asked, her voice sour with a squint as she covered her eyes to the light on the landing. "Better be damned good. Naps don't come to me every day."

Ivan blinked at her. All dark skin and floaty curls tied under a scarf. She was the stout sort of short, with curves that dipped into the tie of her rumpled apron. And that scent: she smelt of flowers and soil and life.

He took a deep breath of her and stepped back. He'd been around unmated potentials before; the first breath was always the worst.

She finally lowered her hand to scowl at him. Big eyes, big lips, soft nose. Those eyes widened in surprise at his height, his build, his navy uniform.

"Oh, hell no," she said, her voice hardening. One hand landed on her hip and the other tightened over the edge of the door. "Oh, no, no, no. You need to go right back to wherever you came from. Right back."

"Miss Finn."

"Does your supervisor know you're here? Your, your alpha or whatever. Because you shouldn't be here."

"Miss Finn, I'm here about—"

"Was the last one not threat enough? I tased him so hard, he foamed at the mouth. And I have papers saying I can. So you best be off before I get my gun."

Ivan felt a thread of anger tighten his jaw. It had been a long, long time since someone interrupted him. "Those papers are why I am here, Miss. If you would just let me—"

She held up a hand, her brows high. "I am under no obligation to talk to you, sir. So if you would excuse—" She tried to shut the door, but Ivan sped a hand to that sticky paint, holding it in place.

"I need to talk to you, Miss Finn." His voice was lower than he'd have liked it.

Those pretty eyes looked up at him and flickered with a brief moment of fear.

Her look sharpened, and her scent thickened in rage. "I won't have it," she said, her voice strained as she shoved her shoulder into the door. "No, I swear, I won't..." she grunted, pushing harder, "Damn. It's like pushing against—" she shoved her hip against the thick wood of the door, once, twice, "the very gates—" another shove, "of hell!" The door didn't so much as shimmy.

"I am not here to harm you, Miss." He coated his words in patience. "Not here to mark you or take you to be anyone's mate. I'm here to protect you. There's a foreign pack in town and they're sniffing around for potentials. They're known for just taking the women they want—"