Secret Wolf: A Steamy Werewolf Romance

by Dancer Vane

  His gaze held mine for a second, but he moved on before I could be sure if it was on purpose.

  “Feel able to hold a glass now?”

  I smiled to him, and he gave me my drink back.

  After they left, after Blake had thanked them all and seen both cars leave for the police station, after he had set up the alarm again — I heard the soft “beeps” from the kitchen — he came back to me.

  I sat on the same stool where I’d more or less fallen, halfway between the cold white kitchen and the cold stone walls of the living-room. I was glad for the lack of colour and objects. Any stimulation would have been too much.

  He looked unsure. Hovering around me. I touched his smooth skin between the flaps of his shirt. I just couldn’t help it.

  “Nobody asked why your shirt is torn?”

  “Actually, no. They were more worried about the junkie spewing threats in the next room.”

  “He thinks I’m the one who sent him to prison.”

  “You aren’t?”

  “No, I’m not. I wish. I would feel better about myself if I had.”

  “Well. Never too late for second chances.” But his smile was weak.

  I stood up, wobbled a bit, and took his arm. He let himself be dragged to me without resistance.

  “I need you to hold me.”

  “I can see that. You’d be better in bed than trying to stand.”

  “No — it’s not about standing. I need you to hold me. It makes it all less awful.”

  He let out a sharp breath, and he held me. Tight.

  “Don’t stop,” I said.

  A shaky laugh. A kiss.

  “I don’t think I could,” he said. He swallowed, but didn’t say more.

  I leaned into his warmth. The wall of his chest. I knew evil, and I knew kindness. And I knew on which side he stood. My heart had stopped its wild fearful dance and was now calm, strong and regular.

  His hands caressed my hair. Small torn leaves fell on the floor.

  “Wild girl,” he smiled. He held me tighter and kissed my lips. Softly.

  Then less softly.

  “Wild man,” I retorted when he let me breathe for a second.

  We would be fine. The hope was like a little flame, a little light, fragile, but I knew it would grow. Like a campfire on dry wood. We would be fine.

  “Mine,” he whispered in my neck.

  I wasn’t sure I was meant to hear.

  “Yours,” I whispered back.