The day dragged by. A muffling snow fell outside, creating a womb of white that cast unreality on everything that had happened. Athena tried not to hear the sounds around the house, or listen for Morgan’s voice. No one came to see her save a maid, with her bags and fresh linens and water. The maid helped her dress—a belated attempt to restore her dignity—and then Athena sat in the plain oak chair in a corner and let her mind go blank.
Night fell. The maid brought her dinner on a tray, and she ignored it. After ten, she heard the unmistakable wail of a wolf’s howl within the ranch boundaries. Her heart clenched.
Morgan. Was he trying to speak to her? Thank heaven he hadn’t come to her. Maybe she had been right. Maybe he was relieved at the separation, or the others had wisely talked him out of further confrontation.
She wished she had the ability to howl back with the eloquence of his powerful voice.
Stay away, Morgan. Please, stay away.
She drifted into a half sleep. Her chin bounced on her chest, and she woke with a start. Someone was outside the window. Her senses told her that it was after midnight.
Knowing what she would find, she gritted her teeth and planted her feet on the floor. Pain spiked from heel to knee. She hobbled to the window and pushed back the curtains.
A black wolf stood hock-deep in snow, gazing up at the window. Frosted breath rose in a cloud from his muzzle. She had seen him as a wolf twice before… when he had saved her, and in her dream… but now she realized the full measure of his magnificence. No ordinary wolf had ever been so big, so thick of coat, so brilliant of eye. Love became a knot in her chest, struggling to untwine.
He loped toward the wall. Athena lifted the sash on the window. She lost her balance, grabbed at the nearest furniture, and made her way to the chair. Even if her legs had been whole and strong, they would not have held her now.
Morgan made no sound as he scaled the wall. A silhouette darkened the gray square of moonlight. Athena felt a chill of memory, as if she were reliving the past a second time—the night that Morgan had come to her room in the Denver mansion. Once more he had found his way to her in spite of all obstacles.
And she had nothing to give him.
The window creaked as it opened wider, just big enough to admit a man. Morgan’s dark, human head appeared in the room, framed by his mane of damp hair. He balanced on the sill and leaped to the floor.
It took her an instant to realize that he was naked. He straightened. She stared. She wished she had drunk some of the water the maid had brought, for her mouth was dry as cotton.
She had seen him naked before, in the big top, but not so close. Every proportion, every line of his body was perfect—not too large or muscle-bound, not too slight, but ideally suited for a life of running and hunting, jumping and adapting to the wild in all its harshness and beauty. Comparing him to a statue was far too inadequate. His chest was lightly dusted with dark hair that ran in an arrow to the base of his stomach. She dared not look there. Yet.
“How… how is Caitlin?” she asked.
“Resting.” He shook his head, as if to cast off all outside distractions. “Did Niall hurt you?”
In his voice was a promise of what he would do if she answered in the affirmative. “He is my brother,” she whispered. “He does… what he thinks is best for me.”
“Do you still believe that?”
The clean, snow-kissed, masculine scent of him displaced all the air in the room. She could hear the sound of his pulse, just below the skin at the base of his neck where it met his broad shoulders. And below… all the way past the slender firmness of his waist and hips… he was vibrantly alive. Alive and wanting her.