I touch her.
Not her arm. Not her back.
Her face.
My claws hover, a cage of death around her delicate jaw.
She stops breathing. Her chest freezes.
I cup her jaw.
She is so small. So fragile. Her pale skin is soft under my calloused, bloody palm.
My thumb. I move it. Slowly.
I brush it over her lip. Her bottom lip.
It is soft. It is damp. It trembles.
A shudder runs through me. A need so powerful it steals my breath.
Mine.
14
BETTY
My world is reduced to the size of his hand.
It is a massive, scarred, and blood-streaked thing, a living cage of calloused flesh and black, dagger-like claws. It cups my jaw with an impossible gentleness that feels more terrifying than his rage. His thumb, rough as a whetstone, brushes my trembling bottom lip, a simple, exploratory gesture that sets my entire nervous system on fire.
My mind is a silent, high-pitched scream. DANGER. RUN.
He is a monster. I just watched him tear a pack of magic wolves to pieces, his movements a blur of tactical, brutal violence. I saw him bite the Alpha’s neck and break it. His hand, the one now holding my face, could crush my skull without a thought.
I am frozen, my heart a frantic, trapped bird in my ribs. I am paralyzed by his sheer, brutal size and the inhuman power he just displayed.
But he doesn’t crush. He doesn’t tear.
His red eyes are not feral. They are not empty. They burn with a new, dark, focused light. It is an intelligent, possessiveneed that has absolutely nothing to do with the chaotic rage of the battle. He’s looking at me, truly seeing me.
And I... I don't run.
I am pinned by his heat, by the sheer, overwhelming presence of him. The adrenaline from the Worg fight is still a lightning-storm in my veins. He protected me. He thought. He planned. He bled for me. My terror is a high, thin wall of ice, and this new, aching curiosity is a hot, molten tide, rising to meet it.
I lean.
It is the smallest movement. A fractional, impossible tilt of my head, a pressing of my cheek into his calloused, blood-streaked palm.
It is permission. It is yes.
A sound rumbles in his chest, a low, deep, questioning vibration, almost a purr. His thumb traces my lip again, more firmly, as if memorizing the texture. He leans closer, his massive head blotting out the dim, gray light from the cabin door, plunging us into a world of shadow and scent. His smell overwhelms me: animal musk, sharp pine, old sweat, the cold iron of his own blood, and the unique, sharp scent of his skin.
He is exploring.
His other hand, the one that isn't holding my face, lifts. I flinch, but he doesn't touch my body. He touches my hair, his huge, clumsy fingers brushing the damp, matted strands from my face. His black claws are a terrifying, gentle comb.
He lowers his head, his rough, brutish nose nudging my temple, my cheek, the sensitive line of my neck. He sniffs me. A deep, rumbling, vibrating inhale, like an animal committing its mate to memory. His hot, damp breath ghosts over my cold, hypersensitive skin, and a violent, full-body shiver racks me.
