He set her away from him on a low growl. Amber light smoldered in the depths of his irises.
When he spoke, his voice was rough and dark. “Let’s go. Before I do anything stupider than that.”
CHAPTER 11
Giving in to impulse had never been one of Razor’s weaknesses.
Temptation had been equally foreign to him, yet as he gruffly exited the Gare du Palais station with Willow, arousal licked through him like a wildfire—along with the powerful want to take her into his arms again and give in to far more than just the impulse to kiss her.
His body vibrated with dangerous need, making his pace hard and clipped as they strode out into the twilight.
Willow paused beside him, her light green eyes dusky as she glanced up at him from under her impossibly thick lashes. “St. Anne’s is only a few blocks away. We can walk from here.”
He gave her a curt nod. “Let’s go.”
They crossed the pavement in front of the train station and headed toward the wide boulevard and bustling network of old streets and narrow alleyways that sprawled on the other side. Willow navigated the twists and turns of the labyrinthine neighborhood with the easy familiarity of a local.
Razor couldn’t help but see her as the strong-willed twelve-year-old girl who had run away from the safe haven of the shelter armed only with her wits and stubborn determination. That girl was still present in Willow now, in her courage and her resolve.
She’d confided in him earlier that she was afraid, but he knew she would have made this pilgrimage despite those fears. There was a warrior beneath all her soft curves and winsome beauty. Unfortunately for him, that only made her all the more appealing.
“It’s not too much farther,” she said, her pace brisk beside him.
They walked another block, Willow finally working her way onto a quiet, upward-sloping street hemmed in on either side by three- and four-story townhomes.
Slender, uneven sidewalks with barely enough room for one tracked up the incline on both sides. Willow walked ahead of him on the tightly settled street, eventually pausing in front of an unmarked, heavy wooden door.
“We’re here. This is it.”
Razor studied the pale brick building sandwiched unassumingly between its neighbors. There was no signage, no number on the door. If he hadn’t known the historic townhome served as a safe house for orphaned Breedmate girls, he never would have guessed. Which had been, no doubt, the whole point of establishing the shelter in this spot when it was founded.
He heard Willow’s soft intake of breath before she lifted her hand and used the old iron knocker to announce them. He stood close, all of his Hunter instincts at the ready as the sound of shuffling footsteps approached on the other side of the door.
A pleasant looking human woman who appeared to be in her mid-forties pulled open the door. Her blonde hair was gathered into a conservative bun that complemented the plain black skirt and high-necked sweater she wore. She smiled warmly when she saw Willow.
“Well, hello,” she said, her English marked with a French accent. “What a lovely surprise to see you again, Laurel.”
Willow didn’t show her reaction, but Razor could feel her internal flinch at the revelation that her twin had apparently been to St. Anne’s as well.
“My name is Willow,” she said, giving the older woman a guarded smile. “I’m Laurel’s twin sister.”
“Oh, forgive me. The resemblance is so striking, I just assumed—”
“And you are?” Razor interjected. The woman’s gaze flicked to him, registering easily enough that he was Breed.
“Madame Claudine Gauthier,” she said, still giving him the once-over. “I’m the director of this shelter.”
Her demeanor seemed more protective than defensive, and while her tone was cool in dealing with him, she seemed to have nothing but warmth for Willow.
“Please, would you like to come in? We have a policy to be discreet, so I prefer to talk inside rather than on the front stoop.”
“Thank you,” Willow said, giving Razor a subtle look of warning as they entered the foyer behind Madame Gauthier.
“It isn’t often we see former residents, but visits are always welcome.”
She led them into a small sitting room decked out in cushioned furniture, soft rugs, and warm lighting. Bookcases lined the walls, their shelves crowded nearly to overflowing with many hundreds of books.
On the wall facing the room’s arched entryway a large, framed portrait of a dour-faced, gray-haired woman stared out from the canvas. Her faint smile seemed intent on projecting mild benevolence, but her eyes told a different story. Beneath her steel-colored brows, her gaze glinted with sternness and what Razor guessed was chronic disapproval.
