Page 29 of What a Wolf Demands

4

He had good taste for a killer.

Lily stood behind Prado as he slid the room’s key card from his jacket pocket. As he fiddled with the door, she looked up and down the hallway. It was wide, with plush carpet and real paintings on the walls. She’d stayed in a hotel once before, on a road trip with her parents. Their room had been next to a little alcove with vending machines and a big ice maker. Every night, her dad had bought her a frosty Coke and a Snickers bar.

This hotel didn’t have vending machines.

Prado held the card to the reader. There was a click and a flash of green on the sleek black panel. He grabbed a small black duffel bag from the floor, then opened the door and held it, one leather-clad arm stretched across the wood.

She made no move to enter.

Was she really going to share a hotel room with him?

He watched her, his usual impassive expression in place. He could have hurried her in or barked at her to move her ass. The wolves she’d spent five years serving at Bart’s would have. But Prado just stood there, his lone wolf stare reminding her he was a patient hunter.

Once she stepped inside, she’d be at his mercy.

Although, who was she kidding. She was already at his mercy.

She squared her shoulders and marched in, her work shoes squeaking on the marble entryway floor. She stopped on the threshold leading to a living room and . . . whoa.

Yeah, this was no Holiday Inn Express.

The ceilings, which had to be at least ten feet, were capped with intricate crown molding. The walls were the color of a rich latte, and the furniture wouldn’t have looked out of place in the White House. Flowers in cut crystal vases adorned a writing desk and a big cherry-stained dining table. Through an open doorway, the edge of a bed was just visible.

She jerked her gaze away.

The door clicked behind her, and Prado walked past. Funny how he seemed even bigger in the spacious room, his dark clothes and hair a sharp contrast to the space’s cool colors. He went to the living room and tossed his duffel on a blue-and-gold striped sofa. Then, without a word, he walked to the window, pulled the heavy draperies open an inch, and peered out—all while keeping his body tight to the window casing. After a second, he released the fabric and headed for the doorway.

What the . . .?

She trailed after him, her discomfort over the bed shoved aside while she tried to puzzle out why he was doing a security sweep like they were on an episode of Cops.

As she suspected, the doorway led to a bedroom. She barely took in the double beds and tasteful decor, because Prado had removed his jacket—

—and he was wearing a shoulder holster.

And, yep, that was a gun.

She must have made a sound, because he turned from sticking his head inside the en suite bathroom. “What?”

“You . . .” She pointed. “Gun.”

He faced her. The pistol nestled against his ribs, the butt ugly and alien-looking. “It bothers you.” He made it a statement.

“I’ve never seen a wolf carry a gun.” Shifters in general shunned weapons. Those were for weak humans who didn’t have fangs or claws. Werewolves also had a deep-seated aversion to firearms, given how humans used them to hunt animals in the wild. To a werewolf, there was no honor in that kind of killing.

Prado unsnapped the holster from his waist and shrugged out of the shoulder straps. He spoke as he wrapped the whole contraption around the pistol. “Not all of the wolves I capture are as reasonable and cooperative as you, Ms. Agincourt.”

Well, that made sense. She started to nod . . . then something he’d said jumped out at her. She’d hardly been cooperative. “Did you just make a joke, Prado?” She made a show of looking around the bedroom like she was searching for something. “Should I write this down, because I have a feeling it doesn’t happen too often.”

He went to a tall dresser and put the gun and holster in the top drawer. Then he crossed to a nightstand and gestured to the phone. “I’m going to order dinner. While we wait for it, you should use the time to take a shower.”

Record needle scratch. “Why would I do that?”

He gave her a look like she was an argumentative toddler. “You stink of rum. The smell is overpowering.”

Heat entered her cheeks. “If I do, it’s only because you chased me through a bar.”

---