Bowie gives a slow nod.
“I expect to pick up Cecily’s scent in Pest. We’ve every reason to believe they’re there now and will leave from there after the rain, meaning her trail will be fresh.”
“Let us hope that comes to pass, for if it doesn’t, I’ll be so distraught as to prove worthless.”
“You won’t be,” I assure him and nudge our shoulders together. “We’ll find her scent, but if we don’t in Pest, then we’ll keep searching until we do.”
“You’re right.” His voice comes so low and quiet it’s difficult to hear over the pouring rain.
We fall silent. I listen to the swirling tempest outside, the furious thunder and battering wind, thankful we’re not in the middle of a forest where trees would surely be downed in a storm as strong as this one.
Absently, I rub my left forearm, trying to ease the throbbing. A healthy respect for beavers is a painful but worthwhile lesson.
“What’s wrong with your arm?” asks Bowie.
“Only a bruise. I’m all right.”
“Let me see.”
I don’t want to look at it. I find that visually confirming an injury always makes it hurt worse. But Bowie has gently taken my wrist in hand and is working up my sleeve to see for himself. I avert my eyes. Best I don’t know how black and blue I really am.
Bowie’s gasp alerts me to the severity. “Andras!” he scolds. “What’s happened? Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”
I guess it’s rather bad after all. I risk a glance.
Yikes.
Should not have done that.
A fresh wave of pain makes me wince. Sure enough, my forearm has become a color palette suitable for painting midnight landscapes. I thought as much, but the confirmation is somewhat alarming. It’s going to make our continued travels quite painful, to say the least.
“It’s not that bad,” I lie.
Bowie gently traces my skin with his fingers. “It’s hot, Andras. And swollen. Tell me what happened.”
“Beaver.”
“A beaver did this to you?” He looks confused. Ordinarily, that expression on him would make me laugh, but I can feel my heartbeat in my arm, which is weird enough to have me worried.
“They’re stronger than you think,” I gripe.
Bowie doesn’t hold in his little burst of laughter. “But you are a wolf!”
I smile despite myself. “Next timeyoucan catch the beaver and then tell me just how simple it is. I dare you.”
He lifts my injured arm until my fingers reach his mouth, and kisses the backs of my knuckles. “I shall leave the hunting to you, my dear. But let me heal this appalling wound. It looks terribly painful.”
Reeling from his show of affection, I need a moment to interpret his words. My brows greet my hairline. “You can heal this?”
“My blood can,” he says matter-of-factly. “If you’ll allow it.”
The wolf in me shows immediate interest in the form of a wave of longing swelling from the bottom of my soul. Do I want Bowie’s blood? Yes. I can’t help it. But I want more than that. An urge to sink my teeth into his shoulder and claim him as my own threatens to overwhelm my senses.
“You want it,” whispers Bowie, his eyes darkening with interest as he studies me. “Youreallywant it. My goodness, you should have told me. I’d have offered sooner.”
My hurt arm is forgotten. The rotten vegetable smell vanishes. My world becomes the aroma of the blood beneath his veins. My mouth fills with saliva. I wrench my head around to stare at the floor instead of Bowie. I can’t handle the intensity of his gaze or the depth of my desire.
He has no idea what I want or what he’s offering.
