That would never be possible, of course. Her father hadn’t allowed her to take a sketchbook or drawing implements into the cell since she foolishly allowed one arrant man to use a pencil, which he promptly turned on her. She still had a small, silver scar on her throat from where he’d pressed it in, demanding her father release him.
She thought of that man whenever she brushed her fingers over the scar. It reminded her to always be on her guard.
The shifter took a noisy gulp of his water before he wiped his mouth on his bare shoulder. Though she dared not look past the height of his brawny chest, she was absolutely certain he hadn’t taken his eyes off of her.
“Tell me,lille mus,”he rumbled, settling back down against the wall, “have you eaten anything?”
“We’ll receive breakfast shortly.”
There was a curious note of pleasure in his voice when he replied, “So we’ll eat together, then.”
For lack of a better response, she nodded and began to fiddle with the fringe of her shawl. It was impossible to resist looking at him for long. Inevitably, her eyes were drawn back to the fascinating cross-hatch of scars, the sprinkle of blond chest hair, the compelling topography of his arms. It was an arresting sight, but the more she looked, the more she noticed his nakedness and the chill in the air.
Fingers combing through the frayed fringe, she summoned the bravery to ask, “Are you cold? I can give you my shawl.”
“Ah, sweetlille mus,only if you intend to share it with me.”
Josephine felt a wave of heat roll up from her toes all the way up to her face. As far as lewd suggestions went, it was not even close to the worst thing a man had suggested to her in the cells, but it managed to make her nerves flutter more than any had before. “No, thank you.”
“Worth a try.”
“Why?”
“Because you might have said yes,” he said, the words drifting on a wistful sigh, “and then I might have been able to discover if your hair is as soft as it looks.”
If her face got any hotter, she worried that she would begin to glow in the dark.
Josephine self-consciously raised a hand to touch a wispy lock of hair by her ear. “What is that thing you keep calling me?Lily moos.”
“Lille mus,”he corrected her. “It meanslittle mouse.”
The butterflies in her stomach died.
Little mouse.Of course he would see her as a mouse. Wasn’t that what her father thought, too? That she was just some weak creature, born to lay pinned to a board and flayed open for the sake of his ambitions? Was she not meek, and small, and afraid of the predator who played with her?
Josephine straightened her spine against the wall. It was the second time he stung her pride. The beast bristled, and though she did not have claws in this form, she found her fingers curling in her skirt as if she did.
He must respect me,the beast growled from the depths of her mind.I will not accept less!
“I amnota mouse,” she told him, bravery buoyed by trembling, guttural outrage. “You have no idea what I am, sir. None atall.”
No matter what anyone thought, Josephine knew she was not born to be stepped on, nor to be eaten by someone bigger than her. Circumstances had molded her into the shape best fit for survival, but that did not mean she was worth any less than the man on the other side of the cell.
There was a beat of silence. Josephine held very still, her throat closing tight, and waited for the inevitable negative reaction her outburst would have.
When the shifter spoke again, she was shocked by the baritone register his voice had taken on. It was almost an animal’s growl, deep and sensual; the voice of a man who knew he could touch her without so much as lifting a finger.
“You’re right,” he purred. “You are not a mouse. I’ll call youkoneinstead.”
She sounded the word in her mind.Koh-ney.A softkrolled into a liltingnehsound. It was not the prettiest word, but when he said it like that, it was as if he was drawing his fingers over her skin, touching her like heownedher.
Heat pooled low in her belly at the same time that the roof of her mouth gave another deep, uncomfortable throb. She stared hard at her clenched fists. “And what does that mean?”
Instead of answering her, he asked, “Will you still not let me tell you my name,kone?”
She wanted to ask him where his accent came from. She desperately wanted to know his name. She wanted to ask him where he hailed from, what his favorite book was, if he had siblings. She wanted to knoweverything,but she couldn’t.
Knowing too much about him would only hurt her in the end. When he was shipped back to the front, changed irreparably because of her, she did not want to have sewn his name into her heart, as she’d once done with others.
