Twenty-Six
Herwolfwas…awolf.An actual wolf. Tail curled around himself, giant furry head in her lap, one paw tucked beneath her thigh, breath whiffling past his teeth as he slept soundly. She had set aside her book nearly an hour ago. If Malachi knew her predicament, unable to go to bed with the weight of him pinning her legs, he would be mortified.
Really, she could move any time, nudge him and whisper that it was time for bed. But she didn’t want to. She wanted to stroke his tired head, giggle when his ears twitched at her touch, and simply be here with Malachi while he finally rested.
In the soft lamplight she watched his sides rise and lower with each deep, peaceful breath. His fur was gorgeous up close, the pale blond interspersed with brighter gold, many of the hairs tipped with red or ginger. The tips of his tail and ears were light red; the same color circled his golden eyes in a thin band. And he was massive. She hadn’t fully appreciated the size of him when he lay, depleted and hurt, on Rhett’s table. He was larger than any natural wolf, closer to the size of a lion.
Which was why she couldn’t simply slide from under him and try not to wake him. Even his head was too heavy for that.
Instead she wriggled until she could reach the individual recliner controls on the end of the couch. With one of the footrests all the way out, she angled her body to a mostly reclining position without moving Malachi. She closed her eyes. She could sleep this way. No need for a blanket: he was even more of a heat source in this form. She rested her hand on his back and closed her eyes.
“I guess we’re sleeping together,” she whispered with a grin. “Good night, Mal.”
He gave a satisfied sigh, as though he understood her in his sleep. Then April slept too.
When she awoke, the sun was just peeking over the mountain. Instead of her wolf’s warmth and weight, she stretched beneath a light throw blanket that covered her up to her shoulders. She lay still and listened. The shower in the guest bathroom was running.
Seized with energy and purpose, she sprang up from the couch. She hurried to the bedroom, freshened up, changed out of the clothes she’d slept in, and all but ran back to the kitchen. If he were able to eat today, April would present him with a feast.
She had not managed to make him a plate before he emerged from the bathroom. When she looked up, she froze mid-pancake-flip. Eggs, batter, and bacon continued to sizzle in pans on the stove while she stared at her wolf.
His hair looked darker when damp, and right now it stood up on top from a brisk toweling. He wore his customary polo shirt, clinging to chest and biceps and stretched at his shoulders. The color, something between rust and pumpkin, brought out his hair’s auburn highlights. His faded jeans fit as they always had, but right now April couldn’t stop looking at the definition of muscle that pulled denim snug over his thighs even with a relaxed fit. His bare feet brought a vivid memory of last night, when he had those giant paws. When he had tucked one of them under her leg as though his wolf wanted to keep her close.
“G-good morning,” she stammered while a flock of butterflies took wing in her belly.
“Good morning.” He smiled. “Can I help with breakfast?”
“Not today, you can’t.” She nodded to the table. “Have a seat. It’s all me today.”
His chest rumbled, and April’s body flooded with pleasant heat.My wolf.She moved eggs and bacon in the pan, flipped the now-sloppy pancake before one side could burn, and then studied his movements, his face.
“You’re not pale anymore,” she said. “And you’re not limping.”
She didn’t say the rest, but gratitude filled her: the creases of pain around his mouth were gone. The hunched way he held himself when he thought no one was looking, protecting scars with an arm close to his ribs or crossing his abdomen. All these things had disappeared in the night. She could cry, but she wouldn’t.
“I’m entirely healed,” he said, the lovely rasp of his voice quiet with the gravity of his words.
“Oh, Malachi, I’m so—” Shoot. Tears after all. “I’m so glad.”
He nodded, and she returned her attention to the stove. A single tear fell into one of the skillets. When she sneaked another glance at him, though, he seemed tense. Alarm tightened her stomach. Not again.
He looked up from his fixed attention on the tabletop. “April, what is it?”
“You’re still in pain.”
“No,” he said.
“What then?”
“I’m…” He let out a frustrated growl—toward himself, not her. “I’m just very hungry and…finding it difficult to wait for the food.”
Of course. She’d packed away the stir fry last night when he left to change form. She had no idea when he’d last eaten a square meal. “The bacon’s done, just not quite crisped up the way we like it yet. Would that help?”
“Yes. Please.”
He got up, took one step toward the stove, and then suddenly he was standing beside her. April yelped and dropped the spatula, but he caught it midair and handed it back to her.
“I apologize. I didn’t intend to move so fast.”
