She wondered sometimes what he was thinking. There were times she could tell. When he was beating himself up—that was easy. She could tell. She could tell when his brothers annoyed him, and when he was tired. She’d seen him tired so often in the diner, she’d learned the exact gesture when he scrubbed a hand over his face—up once, then down. He’d always continue like nothing was wrong, but that face-rub meant he was tired.

There were other times, though, when she didn’t know what he was thinking at all. When he looked at her, it was baffling. She couldn’t understand it. His eyes went dark sometimes, which made her pulse jump, but he kept his expression cool. He didn’t do what human men did if they were interested: run his gaze up and down her, flirt, touch her unnecessarily. Of course he didn’t. He was a shifter, and he was Brody.

But that look… that look made her think he was interested. Like he was thinking about doing something to her. But he’d always turn away, and sometimes, after that look, he’d go running as his wolf.

She had no idea what to do. She wanted Brody, but she didn’t want him if he was just horny, or bored, or if he felt pity or obligation. She wanted him so bad that if any of those things were true, it would hurt her irreparably. So she didn’t ask. It was a bargain she made with herself. Stay with him, give herself the gift of his company, at least for a while. And in return, don’t ask.

She did her best to please him. She worked hard, put in long hours—even though he told her not to—and jumped through hoops. Maybe that just made her useful to him, like a can opener, but it was the only thing she knew how to do.

“Your father’s property,” she told him one afternoon, pulling out the papers he’d given her. “I’ve gone through these, and figured them out.”

They were in his house today, on the sofas like they’d been that first day. Alison was wearing leggings and a loose top, and she’d crossed her legs on the sofa and tucked her stockinged feet beneath her. She’d become a little more comfortable in Brody’s place over the past weeks. She loved this place more than anything.

He leaned back on his sofa and tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Alison.”

“Come on,” she said. “We have to.” After giving her the assignment, Brody had refused to discuss it ever again. He didn’t want her results, didn’t want to know what else Charlie owned that he had probably inherited. There were so many other things to do, she’d stopped bringing it up. Now she waited a second, looking at his spectacularly handsome profile, and then she said again, “We have to.”

He closed his eyes briefly. “Okay,” he said. “Go.”

“There was a house on Bridger Avenue,” she said, shuffling through the papers. “That’s near Shep Wilson’s garage. I talked to Shep and he says Charlie didn’t stay in the house, but he kept it for some of the high-ranking wolves and their women to use. The house flooded the month after Charlie died, and it’s basically a wreck. It should pretty much be torn down.”

“My classy heritage,” Brody commented. “Go on.”

“He rented an apartment on Sloane Avenue, but the lease lapsed after he died and that apartment is long gone. I talked to the landlord, and he said the place was pretty much used to deal pot, but since it was rented by the alpha, he couldn’t evict him. When Charlie died, the landlord took the opportunity to kick out whoever was shacking up there and put a nice family in. I told him you were fine with that, which I assume is true.”

“Thank you for talking to all of these people,” Brody said to the ceiling. “You’ve been very thorough. I appreciate it.”

Alison was quiet. One of the things she’d learned working with Brody was that he gave out nice compliments, and he always meant them. It made her feel dizzy.

“Next,” Brody prompted.

She shuffled to the next paper, dreading this one. “Um. The last thing he owned was, um, another house.”

“Uh huh,” Brody said. “Where was this one?”

Alison felt her palms sweat. “Well, it’s the house on Barfield Road.”

The air sucked out of the room. Everything was still.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Brody said.

“No. I’m sorry. I’m not.”

Something hard and painful seemed to work its way over his stony expression. “You mean my mother’s house,” he said softly.

“I believe that’s—yes, that’s what it is,” Alison said. “Your mother’s house.”

The house on Barfield Road was where Brody’s mother had raised him. Where they’d lived together. Until Brody’s mother had died when Brody was a teenager.

There were rumors about that death. That Charlie had killed her, or had her killed. That he’d done it to teach Brody a lesson in case he was thinking about taking his father’s place as alpha. In quiet, hushed tones, people said that Charlie had kept Brody in line by killing his mother and making him watch. No one knew how it happened, or whether it was true. But after her death, Brody never spoke of her again.

The story wasn’t talked about much, even among gossipy types. It was too awful to contemplate. And really, no one knew the truth. Except Alison, right now. In this moment, she looked at the quiet pain etched in his face as he stared at the ceiling, and she knew the story was true.

Every word.

“We should tear it down,” she said, because there had to be a solution to this, a way to make it better. “Like we did the Dirty Den. Right?”

“He kept it,” Brody said softly, almost to himself. “I didn’t know the house was his. I didn’t know he kept it all these years. I didn’t even think about it.”

“I, um, I drove by,” Alison said. “It’s empty. It looks like it’s been empty for a long time. The neighbors don’t remember anyone living there. The shingles are falling off the roof, and the windows are broken. It looks in really bad shape.”

Brody raised his head and looked at her. She had never seen his dark brown eyes like that: unshuttered, alive with pain. He made no sound, didn’t speak, but she felt that look like a punch in the heart.

“Brody,” she said.

He shut it down. She watched the pain leave his eyes, leaving an expression harsh and sharp behind. It was the kind of expression a man has when he’s about to hurt someone.

“The house stays private,” he said. “Not even my brothers can know. Only you and me. Am I making myself perfectly clear?”

She’d never heard that icy voice before. “Yes,” she said.

“I mean it. Do not feel the need to discuss this, Alison. Do not breathe a word.”

“Brody,” she said, “it’s me.”

He closed his eyes and took a breath, then opened them again and stood up. “I’m taking you somewhere,” he said.

“Where?” she asked, standing.

“Outside,” he said. “Put on your coat and your boots. I want you to see something.”

She followed him out. He put her in his SUV, and drove silently over the back roads through the woods until he hit the end of one of the access roads. “I usually run here as a wolf,” he said as he opened the door, “but we’ll have to walk.”

They walked up an incline, pathless, winding through the trees. There was half-frozen mud here, and traces of wet snow that hadn’t fallen yet down in the town. Brody moved over the terrain like it was nothing, his legs moving easily, and Alison tried to keep up. When she slipped and fell to one knee, she found him standing next to her, taking her elbow.

“I forgot,” he said. “I think you’re a wolf sometimes. Come here.”

He hefted her piggyback onto his back, his hands hooked under her knees, and kept walking. Alison clung to his jacketed shoulders, caught between excitement and almost total fear. She was touching him, even though it was through layers of clothing, her whole front against his whole back. His lower back was between her legs. She could feel him move, feel the smooth play of muscle down his back and through his hips as he climbed. It was awesome. And at the same time, whatever it was was so important he was carrying her up the mountain to see it. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what that was.

It took him nearly half an hour, but at last he broke through the trees and climbed to a ridge with a clearing. He set her down without a word. He wasn’t even winded, of course. For a werewolf, that was a leisurely stroll.

“Okay,” he said, turning her. “Look.”

She did.