PRINCE OF WOLVES By Susan Krinard

When his tasks were done and he could put it off no longer, Luke crouched across the fire from her, keeping that barrier between them. His defensive rage had leeched away, but it left him vulnerable, the direct reproach of her gaze told him she would not give up, just as she had promised. He knew that of her, as he knew it of himself.

He could maintain the silence, until she felt compelled to break it, he could continue to fight her off with all the carefully suppressed ferocity at his disposal. He knew neither method would work—not with her. There was one other way to keep her at that safe distance where she couldn’t break his control. She wanted words. Words were not his favorite means of expression, they were man-made constructs that had no true place in his world. Usually, with the others, they hadn’t been necessary, after the beginning. Joey wanted more than he could give—but he could give her something to make her believe she had what she wanted.

Letting his muscles relax into a pattern of indifference, Luke met her eyes. The gold-flecked depths of them, fringed by dark lashes, had the terrible ability to weaken his most powerful resolve, he braced himself against them and against the sight and smell of her and said, “You wanted to know something about my past, Joey.”

She tensed in startlement, her eyes widened, the full curve of her lips parting on a breath. He remembered the feel of those lips under his own, the soft oval curves of her face, the silky texture of her hair. He closed his eyes long enough to stop the litany and what it did to him. When he opened them again, her face was coolly expectant.

“I’d like to know more about you, yes,” she said quietly.

He sighed, knowing he revealed himself by the flicker of her eyes. “What do you want to know?”

For a long moment Joey considered, her head cocked, as if she had expected him to launch into a detailed autobiography. He half expected her to demand that he tell her about the other women who had come before, but she surprised him.

“Tell me about your mother, Luke.”

He stiffened instinctively, drawing up all his defenses, muscles trembling with the urge to fight or flee. One by one he brought the reactions under control again, before Joey could catch more than a glimpse of them—though he knew it had not entirely escaped her. Just as he knew he had little choice but to answer.

“My mother,” he said heavily, feeling the weight of the word in his heart. He’d never spoken of her, not to anyone like Joey, but there had never been a woman like Joey before.

“You told me—that she’d died when you were a boy.” Joey licked her lips, as if realizing at last the significance of her question. “I—I could tell she meant a lot to you.”

“Yes.” Luke dropped his gaze and stared into the fire, which seemed safer than Joey’s sympathetic eyes. “If that’s what you want to know, I’ll tell you.” He closed his eyes, casting back into memory, into a time when things had been simple, when he had been happy as only a child can be when his world is a known, safe place—and before, to a time he knew through stones and the soft, nostalgic words of others. And considered where to begin.

“There is a valley,” he began slowly, “hidden in the mountains not far from here, where a small village exists much as it has for a hundred years. Few people know of it, and those who do seldom speak of it to strangers.” He looked up to find Joey’s attention riveted on him like a child hearing a fairy tale, and he almost smiled.

“In this village there are families, many related, all living in harmony with each other and with their world. They seldom need to go beyond its borders, but sometimes the villagers will send the restless young men out to the nearest towns to buy those few necessities the village can’t provide for itself. Many years ago one of these young men grew to have a family of his own, and his only child was a beautiful girl that he named Marie-Rose.”