Page 8 of Caught By the Wolf

“Why is his wolf warning you away? You’re his brothers.”

“And you’re his mat—”

Declan kicked Cage in the leg. “Ow, that hurt.”

“It was meant to.”

Cage rubbed his leg. “We felt you get shot, bro.”

“I’m fine.” Roman finally spoke.

Ella looked at the back of Roman’s head. He was very still, which she had already learned was not the same as calm. Big hands loose at his sides. Weight forward. Eyes on his brothers with an attention that hadn’t wavered once since they came through the door. She thought about him in his wolf form. How he’d placed himself between her and the danger.

How he’d looked at her with those storm-gray eyes like she was the only thing in the world worth protecting. Which was ridiculous. Men who looked like Roman Matthews did not look at women who looked like her that way. They looked at sleek, athletic wolf females. Not nurses with soft bellies and wide hips who got winded after one good sprint through the woods.

She stepped out from behind him.

Roman moved with her, tracking left, and she put a hand on his arm and he stopped. That made both brothers openly stare at her.

“I’m Ella.” When she went to offer her hand, Roman grabbed it.

His fingers closed around hers like he had every right, warm and rough and possessive, and a completely inappropriate spark shot straight up her arm and settled low in her stomach. Oh for fuck’s sake. Really? Now? In front of his brothers? Her body had the worst timing in the history of bodies.

That made Cage grin again. “Hi, Ella.”

He was studying her with open, gleaming interest. He was handsome. But then all three of them were, which felt frankly excessive for one family and one afternoon. There was something underneath Cage’s charm, though, ears laid flat behind the grin. The friendly part of him was real, but it stood guard in front of something that wasn’t friendly at all.

“So,” Cage said pleasantly. “You’re the reason my brother has a hole in him.”

“Poachers are the reason your brother has a hole in him,” Ella snapped back. “I’m the reason it’s dressed properly.”

“She talks back,” Cage said to the room, delighted. “I like that.”

That produced another low growl from Roman.

The sound vibrated through her hand where he still held it, and Ella had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from making a noise of her own. This was getting ridiculous. She was standing in a kitchen with three enormous, attractive wolf shifters, one of whom had just called her his, and her primary concern was that her panties were becoming a problem.

Declan gave her a nod and slowly walked toward Roman. When he was still about a foot away, he reached out and placed his hand on the bandage. Up close he was even bigger. His eyes when they passed over Ella held on a beat too long—not unfriendly, just thorough, like she was being weighed on a scale only he could read.

“This going to be okay?”

Ella nodded. “Probably. He won’t go to the hospital.”

“No. He wouldn’t.” Declan looked down at her hands. “Why don’t you go wash up. We need a few minutes alone with Roman.”

She didn’t know why, but she looked at Roman for his permission. He nodded and she headed to what she thought was the bathroom door. It was Roman’s bedroom instead. She closed the door and leaned back against it, trying to put herself back together.

Great. Fantastic. She’d accidentally walked into the one room in the house that smelled entirely like him, and her stupid body took a full, greedy breath before her brain could stop it. There is blood on your shirt, she reminded herself. You do not get to enjoy the smell of the man who is currently holding you hostage for your own good.

You especially do not get to stand here wondering what it would feel like if he pinned you to this door and put that growly mouth on every inch of you.

Washing her hands and face helped settle her nerves. She undid her ponytail and finger-combed her hair, trying to get the leaves and twigs out of the brown mess. She sighed. Of course she’d end up in the same house as three deliciously handsome men while looking like she’d just rolled down a mountain—which, at some point today, she actually had.

And looking exactly like the disheveled, thoroughly unheroic woman she was. No sleek ponytail. No athletic glow. Just flushed cheeks, a scratched face, and a body that had never once been the kind men fought over.

She came out to find Roman alone again, waiting in the kitchen with the first aid kit open on the table.

“Sit,” he said.