"Enough questions."
"Come on," I said, halfway pleading. I glanced at Maisey, then back at him. "I need something to keep my mind off all of this. At least talk to me. It doesn't have to be about werewolf stuff."
"Then ask about something else," Riggs said stiffly.
"Uh, why did you retire?"
"Something else," he growled.
I shook my head. "Okay, what does it mean to be the alpha of the pack, like you said you used to be?"
"That's a werewolf question."
I threw a hand up in frustration. "What's your favorite book?"
"Twilight," he said, completely straight-faced.
I stared, forehead scrunching. "Wait, seriously?"
Riggs grinned. "That was a joke."
"Ha ha," I said dryly. "Seriously. Favorite book? Mine is Moonlight Caravan, although it has kind of lost its steam with each sequel."
Riggs studied me, then decided to dodge my question by prying. "Why is it your favorite?"
"I guess it's one of those books where I'd trade my world for the one in the book, you know? That's why I can re-read it over and over. It's not about what happens, it's just about the world for me."
"What's it about?" he asked.
I was mildly surprised he was showing so much interest. I was grateful for the conversation, though, so I didn't stop to question it. I spent several minutes explaining it as carefully as I could without dropping any spoilers. Somehow, I felt confident Riggs the freaking werewolf would never sit down to read the borderline YA Moonlight Caravan series, but not spoiling books was as much a way of life as it was a practicality.
I explained the tangled web of love interests, dangerous threats, and the complex world-building of the book in enough detail that my mouth was dry when I finally finished.
Riggs, to my surprise, listened patiently and even asked the occasional question for clarity as I spoke. I wondered if it was because the book focused around werewolves and vampires. It was probably entertaining to hear all the things fictional work got wrong about the world he knew.
"I see," he said.
"Anyway." I blushed a little. I felt like a child for having so much passion about a silly book series, but it also wasn't like I had a whole lot of other options in my life. "You never told me your favorite book."
He looked down, then shrugged. "Never been a big reader, I guess."
"Oh," I said. "You should try some time."
"Yeah, maybe. My sister was always reading anything she could get her hands on. But I guess it didn't rub off on me."
"You have a sister?" I asked. I couldn't quite picture a female version of Riggs. The only image that popped into my head was a dark-haired, fierce Amazonian woman who looked like she could punch through brick walls. "Is she, you know, like you?"
Something flashed in Riggs' eyes, but I couldn't put my finger on it. He looked like he was about to say something, then he just shook his head. "She's not like me. No."
"So you weren't born like this?"
"Enough questions. I'm going to run a bath for you. Are you well enough to take one?"
"Do I smell that bad?" I asked, grinning.
"I figured you would find it refreshing."
"I would," I said. "I was just joking."
Riggs walked into the small bathroom attached to our room and I heard the water start running.
"You can take a shower first, if you want,” I said. “I promise I'll scream bloody murder if a squad of howlers shows up and tries to eat us."
He paused at the door, then sniffed his armpit and winced. "I'll be quick." He went and dug in a small backpack I hadn't noticed and pulled out some clothes. When he went into the bathroom, he left the door more than just a little cracked.
"You left the door open," I called out, almost desperately. I felt like I was getting shoved into the middle of a cliché movie scene where the character unknowingly strips naked in front of the cracked door, as if they forgot the potential love interest was waiting just on the other side.
His face appeared in the crack. "I want to be able to hear you if you need me. Close your eyes if you want."
Sure enough, he stripped off his shirt right in view of the cracked door. His back was to me, but I saw a crisscrossing of slash-like scars on his tanned, muscular back and what looked like claw marks. He turned, met my eye, and I thought I saw a brief flash of yellow.
Then he walked out of sight and I saw a pair of pants and underwear get tossed at the edge of my view. A moment later, I heard the water splashing and running off him.
I sank down into the sheets, taking deep breaths.
I was not "the love interest" because this wasn't one of my books. This was real life, even if the rules of what constituted "real" decided to bend enough to include werewolves and freaking vampires.