PRINCE OF WOLVES By Susan Krinard

She remembered fighting the powerful attraction of him, even as she struggled to understand it and tried without success to dismiss it. Every logical faculty denied that a total stranger should affect her that way. Her own anger at the irrationality of it all had helped her to reject it.

But that changed nothing. It was a fact that Gévaudan evoked peculiar and powerful reactions from those around him—and even she was not immune. That he could invade her dreams was more than she was prepared to accept. That he could make her feel this way, forget herself.

Unable to govern a flood of contradictory emotions and incapable of sleeping again that night, Joey scrambled out of bed. The floor was cold under her feet, though the room itself seemed far too warm. She began to pace across the short space from door to window, crossing and recrossing the shaft of moonlight, driven by her agitated thoughts.

She had one goal, and one goal alone. That goal did not allow for any ridiculous flights of fancy—or any side trips into unwanted relationships. The only way to deal with the situation was to acknowledge it.

Fact. Gévaudan existed, and he did seem to have a kind of charisma about him that even she had to accept.

Fact. Her dreams proved that she felt that charisma much more strongly than she cared to admit.

Fact. Gévaudan’s behavior suggested he was interested in her, and it was likely she’d run into him again.

Fact. The only way to deal with this distraction was to confront it head-on.

And that meant facing up to Gévaudan, looking him in the eye and erasing his influence from her mind—conscious and unconscious.

The logical array of facts did much to comfort Joey, and having a plan of action, however vague, was a vast improvement over the uncertainty she’d felt moments before. She knew what she had to do, she simply had to keep thinking in terms of facts and reality. Given no encouragement and nothing but remote courtesy, Gévaudan would surely lose interest. And she, in turn, would be able to complete her goals without further distractions.

Stretching her arms behind her, Joey crossed to the window and turned her face to the silver moon. The cold light seemed like an embodiment of pure reason—a kind of mascot, she thought to herself with a smile, reminding her of her purpose. No more daydreaming or wallowing in the beauty of Nature—and no more nightmares.

Below her, two stories down, the small manicured lawn flowed to the edge of the forest, dark and impenetrable even in the moonlight. The mountains formed a black silhouette against a carpet of stars. There was nothing romantic about the view. It represented something she had to overcome to reach her goal. Everything she did from now on had to be a means to an end.

As she turned away from the window, she heard it the distant wail of a howling wolf.

She froze in place, compelled beyond reason to search the darkness for what she half-expected to find. A chorus rose to join the first cry, receding at first, then drawing nearer.

Joey clutched the edge of the windowsill. There was an endless time filled only by the eerie voices, and then she looked down and saw it.

Her wolf.

It stood alone in the grass, its heavy fur frosted with moonlight. It gazed up in silence, and though she could not see its eyes, she knew it saw her. For an instant it held its place, and then it flung back its head and howled. The sound was chillingly mournful, and Joey shivered in sympathy. As the echoes of its cry faded, it bounded away, flowing into the forest.

Luke paused by the outer glass wall of the coffee shop, knowing she would be there. He watched her for a moment as she sipped her coffee, cradling the mug between her hands, eyes closed to savor the aroma.

He envied her the ability to find solace in it. His sleep had been restless, filled with dreams of her, and nothing so simple as coffee could soothe his spirit or ease his need.

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