Page 19 of What a Wolf's Heart Decides

No, the undead might enjoy a sip now and then, but it was the magical houses who had built an empire on it. They traded on blood, both theirs and others, spilling it with little regard for the consequences.

And that kind of stench never wore off.

Dimly, he registered that the battering of his forearm had stopped. The female was still. Quiet.

He lifted his head, dropping his hand from her hair.

She jerked away without meeting his gaze.

Thinking to force her chin up, he reached out to grasp her jaw. “Are you—”

Something smashed against the side of his face, throwing his shoulders back and rocking his head to the side.

A low, angry sob from the passenger seat had him swinging around a second later.

The female huddled against her side of the car, her fist cradled in her lap. Her eyes were wolf blue, and the tips of her fangs peeked beneath full, pink lips as she drew in shaky breaths.

She was beautiful.

And terrified.

And most definitely not a witch.

His face throbbed. She’d clocked him on the cheekbone, going for his bad side so he couldn’t see the blow coming. He didn’t bother checking for a cut. Wasn’t worried about one. Even if she’d broken the skin, a punch in the face wasn’t going to do any more damage than had already been done.

Her shoulders heaved, and she let out a shuddering sob.

Damn. He’d made a mistake. Now he had a mess to clean up.

He put out a hand. Her gaze darted to it, then back to his face. She winced and pressed harder against the door. He lowered his arm.

Yeah, she didn’t want him touching her. Old bitterness threatened to rise in his throat. He shoved it back—along with his wolf. Some werewolves had a strong connection with their inner beasts and could even sense their animal half’s emotions.

Bard wasn’t one of them. His wolf was a quiet sort. When he was a teen just coming into his transition, Bard’s mother had clucked her tongue and warned that his human half was too strong. “You’re too opinionated . . . too sure of yourself, Bardie,” she’d say. “You don’t listen to your wolf. One of these days it’ll stop trying to reach you.”

That day had come and gone. It didn’t matter. The beast was there when he needed its strength. He certainly didn’t need its advice or companionship.

The female stared, her back so tight against the door it had to be digging into her.

He swiped his tongue over his incisors to make sure they’d retreated. Then he cleared his throat. “Female—”

“I have a name!”

The angry rebuke was at odds with her demeanor. Maybe she wasn’t as frightened as he thought.

He tried again. “Haley Michaels.”

She gave a curt nod.

“You’re safe.”

She stared, as if she didn’t understand.

“I’m not going to kill you.”

Still nothing. Then some of the tension eased from her shoulders. Her throat worked as she swallowed. “You’re not?”

“No.”

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