Page 24 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

Cyrus waves her concern off with his good hand. “I’m fine. I was a klutz and accidentally dropped a glass.” He averts his attention, and a small frown surfaces while he cracks a few eggs with unsteady hands.

He hardly sounds convincing. Alana opens her mouth to speak, but lightning strikes again and illuminates the room. Thunder that follows is immediate—a reverberating blast that shakes the whole apartment. Cyrus hisses. There’s a crease between his brows and a tightness along his jaw as he stares down at the counter, unmoving. His chest rises and falls with slow breaths.

“Whoa, hey, Cyrus.” Alana places a hand on his forearm. Her voice seems to calm him—even if momentarily. He meets her gaze and breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth. But then another roll of thunder rumbles, and his muscles tense beneath her touch.

“Oh, Cyrus,” she murmurs, gently stroking his arm. “Is that what this is? Does thunder make you a little nervous? Why don’t you let me handle the cooking?”

Cyrus snaps out of his stupor, hugging the bowl as if handing it over would cost him something vital. “Nervous?” He scoffs, but the redness blooming across his ears betrays him. “I’m not nervous of a little storm.”

His chest puffs out and he carries the bowl to the stove, but another crack of thunder nearly causes him to drop it. Alana plucks the bowl from his hold, setting it out of reach. He tries to protest, but she cuts him off before he can.

“There’s nothing wrong with not liking storms. We’re all afraid of something. I swear if you were to ask me to kill a roach or spider, I’d sooner volunteer to kill myself first.” Her hands find either side of his face.

The contact is soft, intimate. Her thumbs brush against his bearded cheekbones. “Just focus on me for a second.” Cyrus’ breath catches. “Alana—”

“Just for a second.”

His throat bobs with a heavy swallow, then he nods, easing into her touch. The heat of his skin sticks against her palm, and Alana’s cheeks round with a smile. She knew better than to say it out loud, but he reminded her of the family cat they had growing up, how she’d startle at every sign of a heavy storm.

But there was always one thing that would calm her right down.

Gently, Alana slides her manicured nails along Cyrus’ hairline, just behind his ear. She scratches him there, coasting to the base of his skull. Immediately, he melts under her touch. His eyes drift shut, head tilting toward her, and the slow thump of a tail knocks against the cabinet behind him. Without his glamour, parts of his wolf seem to appear when it wants to.

The storm rages outside, its heavy rain and wind pushing against the window while thunder rattles the steel architecture. Briefly, Alana feels him flinch, but he doesn’t pull away. He lets her anchor him. Cyrus’ breathing slows, controlled, and Alana holds him, face in hand, with no desire to be anywhere else.

“When I was little,” he whispers. “My mama and I were runnin’ errands and got caught in some bad weather on our way back home one night. The family truck crapped out on the side of this old dirt road. It was pitch black, and I couldn’t see two feet in front of us, so it was probably for the best.” He nestles closer into Alana’s hand. “But we were stuck there for hours till it cleared up. The wind and thunder were so bad that I swear we were on track to getting the city’s first hurricane. Must have done some damage to my five-year-old little mind, because I haven’t liked a storm since.”

Alana’s heart tugs in her chest. She rubs her thumb against his cheek as his features relax at the memory of his mother. She’s tempted to ask about her, curious to know the woman responsible for raising such a sweet man. But she doesn’t. She simply pulls him in, allowing herself the necessary leverage to place a kiss on his forehead. “That sounds scary. I can’t say I would have reacted any differently.”

Cyrus’ skin warms at the contact. Tail thumping harder, he clears his throat. “My mom used to do what you’re doing. Told me to focus on something warm, something that felt like home. And that everything would pass easier if I did.”

“She sounds like a smart lady.” Alana tucks a brown curl behind Cyrus’ ear.

“She was.”

There’s no amount of ‘I’m so sorry’ that could alleviate that kind of loss, so she doesn’t try to. Instead, Alana gives him a light scratch behind his ears, where her fingers rake through his silky hair, finding a spot that makes him melt even more.

“For what it’s worth, she raised a good man. I’m sure she’s mighty proud of you, wherever she is now.”

Deep brown eyes open. They’re warm like melted chocolate, and his voice is even more so. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I sure hope so.” Cyrus leans into her palm one last time, then reluctantly draws away. When he stands to his full height, Alana realizes just how much he’d been hunched over. Even as a human, his stature was impressive compared to her 5’8 frame. Seems the gentle giant comment on his profile was true in a number of ways.

Clearing her throat, Alana steps back. “Now, why don’t you go relax, hm? I’d be happy to try and take over.”

Cyrus doesn’t even pretend to mull it over before he gives a shake of his head. He seems calmer now, less tense. “No, ma’am. You’re still a guest. You can either help me or take a seat, but I’m not leaving all this cooking to you.”

“You’re so damn stubborn.”

Cyrus chuckles, a low, hearty sound. “So I’ve been told.”

A huff leaves Alana, just as indignant as the roll of her eyes. “Fine. If we’re doing this together, can you at least pass me a paper towel so I can wipe up some of this mess I made?”

Cyrus’ mouth twitches with a smirk, and when he hands her the roll of towels, her expression reflects his.

“Aw, good boy. Taking instructions so well,” she says as she wipes down the counters. It’s meant to be teasing, a casual taunt to lighten the air. When she looks up, the shifter’s face is the color of rose water. He tears his gaze away and starts cutting the corn tortillas into triangles. Behind him, his tail raps against the counter.

“You mind, uh, checking if the salsa needs salt?” he asks. Alana cocks her head at the abrupt way the question leaves him, but then her attention travels south. That’s when she sees it— the subtle, awkward way he attempts to shift his weight. When it clicks, she grins. “Well, I guess it’s safe to say I’m not the only one with a praise kink, huh?”

“Will you hush?” Cyrus groans. Setting his knife down, he scrubs a hand across his face and keeps it there, hiding the color steadily deepening on his cheeks.