“This is new to me as well.” He grinned at her, a flash and gone. The oddly boyish expression managed to make him look sheepish despite a certain sharp edge. “I’m not used to being jealous, or having so little control. It’s not just the bullet wounds, though they don’t help.” They stood there for a while more, his hand under her chin. Lauren was afraid to move for fear she would provoke the rage that kept his eyes wolf yellow or do something that might hurt him the way she’d hurt him with her flinch. She didn’t know what Toby was waiting for. He spoke first. “My father told me that there was something bothering you when you lethe church this morning. Was it Asil? Or was it something else?” She took a step sideways. He let her go, but his hand slid from her face to her shoulder, and she couldn’t make herself take another step and lose that touch. He was going to think she was a neurotic idiot if she didn’t get a better grip on herself. “Nothing was bothering me. I’m fine.” He sighed.
Toby was a monster. His father’s assassin. She wouldn’t allow herself to believe a lie again. If Brian had told him to, he would have killed Jack. Killed him knowing that the human was only a victim, that he was probably a good man. But it wouldn’t have been casual. She’d seen the relief that had flowed over him when Brian had found an alternative to killing the human. Her mate was a killer, but he didn’t enjoy it. Looking at it clearly, she was a little awed at how he’d managed to be so civilized and still meet the demands of who and what he was required to be. The water was cooling off. She shampooed her hair, enjoying the way the soap rinsed away so easily; Chicago water was much softer. She conditioned her hair with something that smelled of herbs and mint, recognizing the scent from Toby’s hair. By that time, the water was starting to become uncomfortably cold. She took a long time combing out the tangles without looking at the mirror and concentrated on feeling nothing. She was
She was forced to push her back a little so she could get a clear sense of what he was trying to tell her. “And I would do this why?” Did he want her to refuse him? Her throat was dry as dust. She, human and wolf both, craved him like a junkie just as she craved all the things he seemed to promise: safety, love, hope a place to belong. She rubbed nervous hands on her thighs as if that would soothe her tension away. He whispered, “I hope you don’t. But you need to be told of your options.” His hands were fisted on his thighs. She smelled something sharp in his scent that she hadn’t before. Dadmn Leo that he’d left her crippled by ignorance. She’d give her right hand to know what Toby was feeling, to know when he was telling the truth—and when he was just trying not to hurt her. He was waiting for her answer, but she didn’t know what to say. “Options.” She tried for neutrality. What did he want of her? Evidently not neutrality. His fists opened and closed twice. Nostrils flared wide, he
ASIL dreamed of a familiar house: small and well made, a house built for a warm climate with carefully tended orange trees by the door. He paused beside the bench positioned where it would catch the shade of the biggest orange tree when the sun was high in the sky. Running a finger over the clumsy jointing between two of the pieces that formed the back, he wished vainly that he’d had time to fix it. Even knowing what was going to happen, he couldn’t make himself stay by the bench, not when Sarai was in the house. He had no photographs of her, nor had any of the paintings he’d attempted ever done her justice. His artistic talent was plebeian at best. Only in his dreams did he see her. He took only a step and found himself in the main room. Half shop, half kitchen, the room should have been utilitarian, but Sarai had hung baskets of plants and painted flowers on tiles set in the floor, making it feel welcoming. On the worktable set near the back of the room, his mate ground a cinnamon s
Toby continued to rock the porch swing gently back and forth. Encounters with Asil usually started with a power play of some sort. After a few minutes, Asil walked past the porch swing to the railing that enclosed the porch. He hopped on it, one bare foot flat on the rail, leg bent. The other fell carelessly off to the side. He wore jeans and nothing else, and his wet hair, where it wasn’t touching his skin, began to frost in the cold, matching the silver marks that decorated his back; Asil was one of the few werewolves Toby had seen who bore scars. The marks sliced into the back of his ribs where some other werewolf had Dadmaged him—almost exactly, Toby realized, where his own wounds were. But Asil’s scars had been inflicted by claws, not bullet holes. He posed a lot, did Asil. Toby was never sure if it was deliberate or only an old habit. Asil stared out at the woods beyond his house, still encased in the shadows of early morning before Dadwn, rather than looking at Toby. Despite th
Toby rinsed out his cup and turned it upside down in the sink. He was not usually so careless. Asil’s mate had died, tortured to death by a witch who used her pain and death to gain power. For all that he found Asil irritating— especially his latest and most effective method of torment: Lauren—he’d never deliberately use Asil’s mate’s death to torment him. But more apologies would accomplish nothing. He muttered a soft plea for blessing upon the house, as his mother’s brother had taught him, and left. LAUREN was glad Toby drove this time. The icy roads gave him no apparent concern, though they slid around enough that she dug her nails into the handle conveniently located above the window of her door. He hadn’t said much to her this morning after he’d returned from consulting with the forest ranger. His eyes were distant, as if the teasing, gentle man she’d woken up with was gone. Her fault. She hadn’t expected to feel so much after she’d sent her wolf to sleep while she showered. They
As their road narrowed into a white scar between steep hills crowding in on both sides, she wondered if “highway” was the right word for it. “Our mating bond didn’t become permanent last night,” he said out of the blue. She stared at him, feeling the familiar flutter of panic. What did that mean? Had she done something wrong? “You said that all we needed to do was . . .” She found she couldn’t quite get the next few words out. In the cold light of Day they sounded so crude. “Apparently I was wrong,” he told her. “I assumed since we’d gotten the most difficult part of being mated out of the way, all we needed was consummation.” She didn’t know what to say to that. “It is probably better,” he said abruptly. “Why?” She hadn’t known if she’d be able to get out a word, but she sounded, to her ears, merely curious, none of the panicky feeling that had closed over her at his words evident in her voice. But she didn’t come anywhere near the disinterested neutrality he brought to his voice. “
When he’d tightened her straps to his satisfaction, he’d told her that the old beavertails or bearpaws had been almost as much trouble as help. The new snowshoes were one of the few inventions of modern life that he seemed to thoroughly approve of. She had to scramble a bit to keep up with him. If this was slow, she wondered if he normally ran when he was in the woods, even in human form. None of his wounds seemed to be bothering him much, and there had been no fresh blood on his bandages this morning. She pulled her thoughts away from why she’d had such a good look at the banDadges this morning. Even so, she couldn’t help but look at him and smile, if only a little to herself. Out in the snow and covered with layers of clothing and coats, she felt insulated from the terrors of intimacy and could better appreciate the good parts. And Toby had a lot of good parts. Under his coat she knew exactly how broad his shoulders were and how his skin Dadrkened just a little behind his ears. She