Free Werewolves of Chicago: Curragh (Werewolves of... Book 6) by Faleena Hopkins Page B

Indiana Avenue, only a couple nights after flying in. The exposed brick wall on the street side of the building was charming and reminded her of New York. The rest of the walls were painted white, but she’d yet to hang anything on them. Wanting to start fresh, she’d left all her art and furniture with her ex. The space was even a little larger than the place she’d shared with Mike. So hard to find space in Manhattan. This place was perfect, and the landlady was tickled pink to have a policewoman move in, someone reliable. “Unlike the last couple,” she’d said with a snort. And Kara was more than happy to check out of the hotel. It was depressing not having a place of her own.
    Remembering walking up to it for the first time, she glanced down to the quiet street. Her hands tightened around the cup. There, coming toward her building was Curragh. He looked like he smelled the air with purpose. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was hunting something, like an animal might. He had the same crouched stance.
    “What are you doing?” she called down, exasperated.
    His body straightened up like a shot, eyes locking on her. “Buzz me in.”
    She blinked a couple times, turned around, and set down her cup so fast it almost toppled over. Did he come looking for me? How does he know where I live? She ran out the door and down the stairs. Is this just a…no, it can’t be a coincidence. He wasn’t surprised to see me. What is the deal with this guy?
    Throwing the front door open to the small six-unit complex, she explained, out of breath, “There is no buzzer. I mean, there was. But it broke.”
    He nodded tensely, pointing to her bruised face. “How’s this feel?”
    She shrugged, eyeing how tired he looked. “You okay?”
    “No.” By his expression, she knew how much he needed her to say yes when he asked, “Can I come in?”
    She moved over to let him through and he headed for the stairs without looking back. Shutting the door, she followed him.
    “I live on a third floor, too,” he quietly told her, thoughts far away.
    “Oh? It’s unlocked.” She watched him grunt and throw the door open. He turned and waited for her to enter before closing and locking it behind them.
    “Want something to drink?”
    “What have ya got?” He sat on her loveseat, the world on his shoulders.
    Her lips parted and she pointed to the kitchen cabinets as one does when thinking. “Ummm, coffee, tea. No, you don’t look like you drink tea.” He shook his head once. “Vodka. I’ve got some Tanqueray gin. Jack Daniels.”
    “Jack.” He brought his huge hands up, cradled his head, resting his elbows on his knees. As she went to get the bourbon, she heard him say in a lower register, “Please.” She paused and looked over at him, then continued on to the task. Pouring herself a glass seemed like a good idea, too, and soon she was carrying two short glasses into the living room, the bottle under her arm.
    “Here.” She set the bottle down on the glass coffee table. “Thought you might need more.”
    He nodded and downed his glass, but didn’t refill it. He turned to her, eyes drained of light. “One of my brothers almost died tonight.”
    “You have brothers here?”
    “Not by blood. But they may as well be.”
    She reached out for him, picturing a stepbrother in a car accident. It didn’t occur to her how wrong her first guess might be. “Oh, Curragh, I’m so sorry.” He pulled her onto his lap. “Is that what this is?” she asked. He followed her finger to the bloodstains on his shirt. He closed his eyes and put his forehead to hers. “Is he going to be okay?” He nodded once.
    She began tenderly tracing her lips across his frown, his cheekbones, his shaking eyelids. Finally she pressed her mouth to his and he responded, pulling her close. His arms slowly encircled her, not rough like before. She felt how much he needed the softness of her woman’s heart.
    He slipped off the worn out t-shirt she