PRINCE OF WOLVES By Susan Krinard

Whatever wordless communication had passed between them, it was enough to make Philippe back away, Claire squirming in his arms; he paused only long enough to glance at Joey before vanishing as silently as he had come.

There was almost no time to reflect on the little scene, for suddenly the wolf shape began to blur and shift again, and then Luke was standing in the center of the room, shaking himself like a wet dog. Wet wolf, Joey corrected herself, and the beginnings of an almost hysterical giggle threatened to break her nonsensical calm.

The sound bubbled up as a choking cough that had Luke by the bedside in an instant, his hands almost as hot as live coals on her face. “Joey!” he said sharply. She stared into his eyes—the exact same eyes—and wondered why she had so completely failed to see it before.

She reached up to take one of his hands, turning it over and over as if it alone could yield up the secret of what he was. Knowing she must look and sound incredibly foolish, Joey grinned at him and let the sudden tears spill over. “You could have warned me, you know.”

His exasperated cry was muffled as his lips pressed into the hollow of her throat. She tangled her fingers in his hair and saw in it the variegated strands of black and gray and white that she had never recognized for what they were.

They rested there, each adjusting to the monumental changes between them, Luke with his head on her thigh while she gentled him with her hands as she had caressed the wolf he had been. For once in her life Joey didn’t question. For once in her life she felt no need.

The suspended time of magical acceptance could not last, Joey sighed as Luke straightened, his callused thumb hot on her skin as he brushed the loose hair from her eyes. “I’m sorry, Joey. I didn’t know any other way to make you understand.” There was genuine contrition in his tone, but also very real worry,;he searched her eyes for something he feared to see—condemnation? Loathing? Something caught in her throat as a new realization came to her, the first of a series of realizations that tumbled one upon another like dominoes.

“Oh, Luke I was stupid not to have seen it before. It’s just that they don’t teach us much about werewolves where I come from.”

His rough chuckle almost managed to surprise her. “It’s not an easy thing to learn, or accept—even for us.” Abruptly his eyes grew serious again. “We don’t choose this. It’s in our blood, Joey. But we don’t reject it either.”

Again he was studying her with such intensity that she knew he needed her answer “I will admit,” she said softly, “that it will take some getting used to. But”—she grabbed his hand and raised it to her lips—”what I’m most worried about is how I’m going to repay you for saving my life—or my virtue—several times.”

Luke’s sudden grin was truly wolfish. “I’m sure we can think of a way.” The warm caress of his words made her suddenly, achingly aware of the sleek curves and angles and planes of his bare chest so close to her cheek, and of what lay just out of sight beyond the side of the bed. The heat that flooded through her with the very graphic image had nothing to do with the natural warmth radiated by Luke’s arms and hands against her skin.

As if she had spoken her thoughts aloud, Luke released her and dipped briefly out of sight to collect his discarded clothing. She suppressed the flare of disappointment; hot on the heels of desire came a far more prosaic sensation, and suddenly she had to lean back into the pillows to resist a sudden wave of nausea.

Luke reappeared, his shirt half-unbuttoned in a way that did much to turn her mind away from less pleasant considerations. He leaned over her, frowning. “Are you all right, Joey?”

She managed a smile in response to his concern. “I think I need to rest now, Luke.” Her eyes began to close in spite of every effort to keep them focused on him. “I’m sorry…”

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