Page 91 of The Wolf in My Tavern

Damn whelp! I thought it would take longer.

“What is it?” Ada demands, lifting a sleepy head and looking about.

“Stay here,” I say, already rising from the bed. My body coils, ready to shift.

I don’t get a chance as the cabin door explodes clear off its hinges, shards of wood flying across the room.

In the gap stands a raging wolven.

Fuck!

No one has seen a royal shifter for more than a century. I had forgotten those rumors about them—how they are bigger and stronger, a different creature entirely from my half-shift beast.

I was not fucking prepared.

He is a wall of feral flesh.

He is also very fucking pissed.

Ducking low, he batters his way in, taking out a good portion of the door frame in the process—he is that fucking big.

With his arms spread wide, he roars at me.

“Goddess,” Ada says weakly. “Is that… is that Callum?”

She knows.

He prowls deeper into the room, barely fitting beneath the rafters, even stooped, a giant beast radiating primal menace.

His head swings my way, and he roars again, daring me to challenge him—daring me to intervene.

I don’t move lest I provoke him. He is new to this form and could harm me. More importantly, he could harm Ada should I dare to challenge him.

His nostrils flare, and he pivots toward Ada. In a single low bound, he is on her, snatching her to his chest. His low growl is another warning to me.

I am not fucking stupid. I have been taunting him for many days, rutting his mate in front of him. This is the consequence.

I wanted to push the man and beast to their limits and did so recklessly, in part to get the measure of them, for my wolf and I are as bound to them as we are to Ada. More than that, I wanted to punish him for nothing more than claiming her first, convincing myself he was less than worthy: too young, too nice, too weak to deserve such a sweet and spirited lass.

I was wrong on every count.

And with every passing day, layers of him were revealed.

I wanted reasons to despise him because, the truth is, I despise myself for my handling of this. For a man who prides himself on intuition, I have been blinded by my own sense of inadequacy and allowed it to dictate my actions.

As he stands before me, a hulking monster, I see how gently he holds her despite his great strength. He turns slightly to put himself between her and the source of danger, which his primal side deems to be me.

If I can admit now that I was bitter about circumstances that almost led me to walk away from my fated mate and that I wanted to hate him, then I can also admit that the emotions that consume me now are unmistakably those of pride.

He could hurt me, punish me, kill me with ease if he wanted to. His beast will be riding him hard, telling him to eliminate the threat.

But no, with actions, the same measured actions I have heard tales of or seen with my own eyes, he shows me he is noble in ways as much as blood.

Sinking low, he bounds out of the room.

I follow in time to see him jump through the shattered hold door.

The crew stands agape.

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