STAWP | Chapter 45

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I just want to thank all of you guys for reading my story. Your comments and votes mean a lot to me, and seeing other people enjoy STAWP inspires me to write. 

I didn't plan to post a chapter today, but I saw that my story got ranged #49 in werewolf!!! That's like, in the top 50. Which anyone who's taken math, ever, would know. *sigh* 

Anyway, I'm so excited that I just spent the last hour editing this here chapter for y'all. I'm not sure why I just wrote that in a southern accent -- maybe I should have gone with French? Or Italian? Or Spanish?

Anyway, chapter below! Enjoy!

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Saffron

Logan grabs my hand and pulls me inside the house. I want to ask him what's going on, but as if reading my mind, he turns around and gestures for me to be quiet.

His footsteps are light, almost silent as he leads me across the marble floor. I follow, staying as quiet as I can, which is pretty easy to do barefoot. If I was still in my flats, I'd probably give us away in seconds.

Logan leads me to the half-open door that leads into the dining room and peeks inside, making sure the coast is clear. Once he slips into the room, I silently follow.

It's got a good vantage point of the foyer, so it's a good place to lie in wait if our plan is to attack. I stop next to Logan, tensing as I listen to the slightest sound. Logan seems to be doing the same, his shoulders tense, his head cocked as he listens. His brows furrow, reminding me of our linking lessons from earlier, and then his head tilts slightly toward the kitchen. I listen too, but aside from our breathing, the house is silent. I'm pretty sure the entire floor is empty and I start to speak, but Logan shakes his head.

I nod once to show I understand and Logan carefully closes the dining room door. I wince at the soft click, but I don't hear any shouts, and Logan doesn't look worried. He leads me into the kitchen, the same one where I cooked breakfast only a few hours earlier, and peeks inside. Then he heads inside, and I follow.

"The coast is clear," Logan declares dramatically, his too-loud voice echoing through the otherwise silent kitchen.

"What's going on?" I whisper, eyeing the empty kitchen.

"Isn't in obvious?" Logan grins and heads for the fridge.

I feel a surge of relief, followed closely by a wave of anger. We're not going to face an army of Rogue wolves and fight them to the death. We'll actually live to see another day. We're actually going to be okay. I can't explain how relieved I feel, but I also can't believe Logan just put me through all that. I mean, seriously? I thought there were murderers in the house and he had us enter Ninja-style just so we could get a snack?

"Should we be in here?" I ask. "Maybe we could just go out for pizza?" If we had to go to all this trouble of sneaking in, maybe we're not allowed in here between meals. If that's true, I can't be seen here. POW catches me breaking one rule, and my entire escape plan is ruined. He'll probably lock me in the dungeon to keep me away from his son and throw away the key.

"It's fine." Logan rolls his eyes and opens the fridge. "If you get hungry between meals, you can always grab something from here," he adds, perusing the contents. "There's also cereal and chips and stuff," he gestures at a few cupboards, "but I don't think that'll keep us going 'till dinner."

"Then why did we sneak in?" I ask suspiciously. If we're allowed in the kitchen between meals, Logan could have marched through the front door. He didn't have to freak me out and make me think we were under attack.

"I like to make an entrance." Logan smirks, and I glare at him. "Fine. Fine," he raises his hands in surrender. "If my parents heard us come in, they would have joined us for lunch."

His look of mock horror makes me smile even though the thought of having lunch with POW is actually kind of terrifying. If I make one wrong move, or say something I shouldn't, I could end up dead.

I walk up behind Logan and peek inside the fridge. This morning, all the food I needed to cook was already on the counter, so I didn't get a good look at what was inside. The top and middle shelves hold a bunch of clear Tupperware filled with leftovers, and the middle shelf holds a lonesome loaf of bread. Logan slides the crisper open, and reaches past and assortment of fruits and vegetables to grab a Granny Smith. He takes a large bite of the apple, turns to face me, and chews loudly. "Apple?" he asks, moving the half-eaten fruit toward my mouth.

"No, thanks." I blush at the thought of us sharing food, of putting my lips where his lips had been, of sharing spit through a piece of fruit.

"Suit yourself." Logan takes another bite and gives me a lopsided smile. He turns to close the fridge, and I get a glimpse of a bunch of cartons and cans in the door—juice, milk, soda.

It's so different from our fridge back home. I can't count the times I've opened it to find nothing but a six pack of bear and a half-finished jar of pickles. If we had this much food—or enough money to buy this much food—I could have avoided a lot of painful bruises. Hunting while Dad's hungry is a recipe for disaster.

"Do you want me to make you something?" I ask Logan.

Any time Dad looks look in the fridge like that, he usually complains that there's nothing to eat in the house. Usually, I try to store at least some of what I hunt in the freezer for a Dad emergency. If he eats while I'm at school, and demands more food when I get back, I'm pretty much screwed. At least here, in this house, I won't have that problem.

"I'm good." Logan chuckles. He steps aside and opens a door I hadn't noticed before, a bit to the left of the fridge. I hesitantly follow him inside, and a wave of cold slaps me in the face. I shiver and rub my arms against the cold as I look inside. It's basically one giant fridge, filled with perishables like milk, juice, yogurt, eggs, and butter. I guess one measly fridge wouldn't be enough for a pack this size.

Logan walks across the room and opens a second door at the back. He walks in and turns to look at something to his right, his breath puffing out in a white cloud each time he exhales. Cold wafts out as I approach and I realize the second room is a giant freezer. It's packed with meats, everything from beef, to chicken, to turkey legs, sausage and bacon. There are also frozen pizzas on one shelf and ice cream in a bunch of different flavours on another.

Logan grabs a package of frozen chicken breast and I step back into the walk-in-fridge. He closes the walk-in-freezer door and then we both head into the kitchen.

"Want me to cook the chicken bre... um, that?" I ask awkwardly and gesture at the meat Logan's holding. I know it's totally immature, but I can't say breast aloud in front of a guy.

"Nah, I got it." Logan smirks, totally noticing what I almost, but didn't, quite say.

"I don't mind cooking." I blush and quickly look down at my feet.

"I got it." Logan insists. He sets the Styrofoam tray of chicken on the counter and turns to face me.

"You don't have to, though," I tell him.

I reach around Logan for the meat. It's not like it's a big deal. It's been my job to cook since Mom died and I can cook gourmet meals in my sleep. Plus, the only reason I'm even here is that POW bought me for ten grand to cook and clean. It makes me sick to think about and remember the way Dad just sold me like a peace of meet, but the least I can do is cook for POW's son so he gets his money's worth.

"You," Logan says, gently taking me by the shoulders and leading me toward the island in the middle of the kitchen, "sit here and relax."

I feel a jolt of excitement at Logan's touch and instantly tense. I expect my wolf to come to the surface at any second and wreak havoc over our nearness, but nothing happens. My shoulders tingle and Logan's touch makes me feel all warm and gooey inside, but that's about it.

"I," Logan adds, planting a soft kiss on my lips, "am going to make us lunch."

"But...," I try to argue. I can't just sit here and watch him work. Not when I'm the slave.

"I'll be your waiter tonight," Logan insists, grabbing a towel from the counter and making a show of draping it over his right arm.

"It's the middle of the afternoon." I giggle.

Not seeming the least bit discouraged, Logan executes an exaggerated bow. He looks just like a waiter—or maybe a butler—right out of a book.

"Welcome to Casa Chez Logan," he says with a fake British accent, grabbing two glasses from the shelf above the sink and setting them on the island with a flourish.

I can't help giggling again. Not only does he look totally silly, pretending to be a waiter and talking with this horrible British accent, but he's got his countries all mixed up. Chez is French, which I know since I've been studying it since grade four. Casa I'm pretty sure is Italian, or maybe Spanish? I've heard 'mi casa es su casa' somewhere, and know it means 'my home is your home,' but I can't remember in what language.

"Can I get you started with some water?" Logan asks.

I nod, still giggling, and then laugh harder when Logan comes back with a two litter bottle of Canada Dry.

"The water filter was empty," he tells me, making a production of pouring the soda. "Plus, this is better." He holds the bottle too high, making the ginger-ale bubble and almost spill over. He quickly lowers the bottle right before it starts to spill and pours the rest of my soda. I start to take a sip, but when Logan says "Mange, mange," this time with an Italian accent, I nearly choke.

Soda goes up my nose, and I wipe at it with the back of my hand while Logan watches me with a silly grin plastered on my face. When I finally pull myself together, he finishes pouring soda into his own glass, closes the bottle, and sets it on the counter next to me.

"Now, prepare to be amazed." Logan heads toward the stove and takes the same spot at which I made breakfast early this morning. I watch him, trying to not feel awkward about just lounging around while he cooks, and take a slow, careful sip of soda.


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