Page 50 of What a Wolf Demands

But his expression stayed the same, his emotionless mask in place. “That’ll be your clothes. We’ll leave once you’re showered and dressed.”

That made her forget her embarrassment for a moment. “For Bon Rêve?”

He shook his head. “For New York.”

Her jaw dropped. “But—”

“We’ll discuss it once you’ve showered.” He went to the double doors, past the spot where they had . . .

She resisted the urge to pull the comforter over her head and never come out.

He stopped on the threshold and turned. When he spoke, his voice was stiff. “You should take care with your shower.”

What? She gripped the comforter.

“To erase my scent,” he added.

Understanding washed over her, followed by a fresh wave of mortification. Of course he wouldn’t want his scent on her. He was supposed to be her jailer, not her lover. She couldn’t reply. All she could do was sit there and wait for him to leave so she could melt into a humiliated puddle and die in peace.

He’d seemed to sense her mood, because he’d yanked open the door and stepped through without another word.

She stood at the sink now, her vision blurring as she stared at the clothes. He’d set them in front of the bathroom door—after she’d sprinted to the shower the second he left the room. It was childish, she knew, but it had bought her a little time to process what happened. Judging from his reserved demeanor, he regretted sleeping together. Although, it wasn’t like she’d given him much of a choice, baring herself and then begging for his help. He might be the coldest male she’d ever met, but he was still a male—and a werewolf. He was programmed to respond to female lust.

And her lust had been off the charts. The urges had been so intense, she’d felt like her body was burning from within. Every nerve ending had been drawn tight, every cell thin and starving. Even the brush of air against her skin had been unbearable.

She was lucky Prado had been there.

But it seemed he didn’t necessarily feel the same.

A groan threatened to work its way up from her chest.

She swallowed, stuffing it back down. The last thing she needed was him hearing any kind of noises through the door, thinking she was caught up in another sexual frenzy.

After last night, she expected the urges to stay away for a good long while. If the soreness between her thighs was any indication, he’d indeed “taken care of it.”

Exactly as promised.

And now she had to face him again. Act like nothing had happened. As if they hadn’t screwed like rabbits, followed by him sticking his tongue in her—

Her sex clenched. She took a shuddering breath. Okay, not the best thing to think about.

Right now, she needed to focus on getting the hell out of Louisiana. It was what she wanted, right? What she’d pushed for. Now that the moment was upon her, though, she felt . . . reluctant?

No, nervous. Anxious. The Louisiana Territory was the only home she’d ever known. Not only that, she’d spent her whole life on the bayou, in an isolated, insular community where no one ever left and no one new ever showed up.

Now, she had to leave all of it behind. Her parents’ home, her job, her—

Job.

Her knees loosened, and she leaned hard against the counter. In her lust-fueled delirium, she’d forgotten all about Bart. If Luc was telling the truth—and she had no reason to think he wasn’t—he was holding Bart prisoner because of her.

And who knew what Luc would do to him once she skipped town.

Her throat went dry. She couldn’t just abandon Bart. That would be throwing him to the wolves.

Literally.

And these wolves would devour him.

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