It's Deacon, I can smell him. He surprises me with the low husky hostility of his link between us and I blink, stomach turning itself in knots as I realize what he just said. Trying to ignore the tone of killer in his undercurrent because I know Colton is a seasoned warrior, and I'm about to see it for myself for a second time.
How do you know what Deacon smells like? I blanch, looking from Colton to the truck and trying to figure out how we would know that unless he knew him. He couldn't have gotten scent from my projecting memories. I mean, Deacon is a Santo, but if he's been at the facility for years then I assumed Colton would have been a boy and not really known him. Deacon is older, by maybe ten years, and I don't recall pulling him from any of his memories, but then again, I haven't looked.
That asshole and his pack slunk off into god knows where after his father died, but I know him. He tried to take me down in front of his pack when I was a kid, to exert his dominance, and humiliate me, and I handed him his ass. I hate that mother fucker with a passion. Knowing that it's his pack that held my mom, and now comes after you both, I swear, I'm going to rip him limb from limb.
I swallow hard, eyes widening and gulp back a little tremor of 'oh shit' now that I realize this is more than Colton being pissed on behalf of me and his mother, and Colton thinking about diffusing things. It's also about already hating the idiot who followed us here. The rev up again of his rage as it waves through me and I know I need to settle him once more.
We have young here, we have pregnant women, and elderly wolves. We have families, and this space is faced by a hundred windows. We need to shield them from the horrors and instill that this place is a sanctuary. I have to help calm Colton and push this fight outside our boundaries, away from watching eyes. I don't want him to rile the extended pack and rip a dozen wolves to shreds out here like this. Even if it is Deacon.
Someone opens the truck door and slides out, all dressed in dark clothes like Colton is, and I recognize the tall, cocky swagger, right away. That air of asshole he wears so well. Deacon looks around, noting all the wolves scattered in a circle surrounding him and then locks eyes on Colton as he seeks out whom he should interact with, and seems to visibly sag. He obviously remembers Colton well.
It's all in his body language and the death of confidence. He hesitates, then walks towards us with his hands raised up as a sign of submission, and Colton stands taller, lifting his head and seems to grow a few inches as he locks him with a penetrating glare. Colton moves in front of me instinctively, side stepping and pushing me back with a hand slid across my abdomen firmly. I can tell it's a protective movement, instinctual, and can't be mad about it when it's purely automatic response to an incoming threat.