Carina.
Ten
CARINA
I’m warm.Toasty warm while pine fills my nostrils.
Mom must have lit incense since the scent is stronger than usual. Given living in the Rockies, it’s not unusual, but is like I’minthe forest rather it being in the background.
My eyes flutter open to an unfamiliar room. Fluff tickles my face, prompting me onto my elbows to take it all in while recalling yesterday.
Treaty Day. Ryder. The wolves’ camp. Ryder’s cabin.
Ryder.
Blinking, I push the ridiculously cozy blanket off as my gaze snags on the chairs, which, unless I’m experiencing memory loss, I passed out in while praying to Hecate I wouldn’t wake this morning suspended over the fire pit outside.
She listened, because not only am I not strung up about to be burnt to a crisp or hunted through the forest in some sick game, I’m tucked in Ryder’s bed-thing without recollection of walking here.
Which means, he put me here.
Rumbling from below urges me to sit up the rest of the way. The pelts slide from my body and reveals my cloak. PresumingRyder would have discarded this at first chance—witchy germs and all that, I think wryly with an eye roll—I’m surprised to find he didn’t.
As I’m gripping the edge of the bed to peer over, the valve shutting off my water powers twists until my palms instantly cool, arms invigorated withstrength.
My powers are back.
Leaning back and out of view, I test them. Pulling on the magick inside my core the same way Mom once trained me to, I feel it rush forward, creating little blue sparks at my fingertips.
Ryder mentioned twenty-four hours, which would be this evening. If he’s not expecting me to have magick, his guard will remain down. Depending how his truth-revealing goes, this could be a saving grace.
More rumbling fills the room. Beside me, a large black wolf is curled up on the floor, his head resting on paws the same way dogs sleep. He’s facing the door while the other half of the rope is beneath his body.
He’ll be on alert, so to wake him, I probably only have to stand, but if he assumes it’s an escape attempt, he’ll be angry. Dealing with the snapping jaws of an angry shifter first thing in the morning isn’t how today needs to go.
So I lean over and poke the wolf.
In all the times of stalking him by that pond, I once imagined stroking his fur. For no reason other than curiosity, the same way meeting Harlow’s vampire mate once fascinated me. While Mom warns against other creatures, I’d prefer learning about them; their strengths and weaknesses, and if they’re truly our enemies or we’re simply referring to them as such out of history.
So far, she’s been wrong about both vampires and shifters. Not every vampire is a mindless murderer, as proven by Alec and Harlow, and shifters won’t immediately snap our heads off.
My finger roots through about two inches of fur until touching averywarm body that makes me wish he slept up here. Warmth like that could sustain against the iciest Alberta night.
His rumbling continues, even after lifting his head and his penetrating depthless eyes find me. His jaw parts, tongue slipping through teeth that could so easily tear my skin, so I slowly pull my hand away, preferring not to test the line between man and wolf.
“Hi,” I whisper, wondering how much he understands; how much he’s still Ryder when his head nudges my palm. “Are you asking to be pet?”
His jaw parts in a growl, but it appears playful rather than menacing so I bring my palm to the top of his head.
“The rumbles—is that your version of purring?”
His ears flick before his demeanour changes. Suddenly, he’s standing and pushing me away. Four paws cross the room, the nails ticking, and he grabs a pair of jeans between his teeth. Back to me, and in an enthralling and almost horrifying manner, his body begins shifting. It stretches, bones cracking and reshaping, fur rescinding. Limbs alter until his body is pulled upright on two feet rather than four, and his head loses the ears and snout.
Within seconds, Ryder stands before me.
Andoh my fucking Goddess…I’d seen him shirtless up close yesterday. In fact, I don’t think there’s been a time I’ve seen him wearing one. But this is different. This involves even less than a shirt.
His back, muscled and rippled, isn’t at all manufactured. It’s from all the shifting I just witnessed, and the constant running through the woods. It’s natural and delectable, if I allow myself to admit that. Wide shoulders that stretch into a rigid back and an ass so firm?—
