Page 30 of What a Wolf's Heart Decides

She whirled so fast she wrenched her injured hand. “Ow! Shit!”

He frowned.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, fire entering her cheeks once more. It was considered impolite to curse in front of the Alpha. In her opinion, it was a stupid and outdated rule.

But what else was new? Outdated was status quo in werewolf society.

Bard didn’t seem to care about her language. He stared down at her, his blue eye discerning. “What’s wrong with your hand?”

She stuck it behind her back. “Nothing.”

“Let me see.”

“What? No. I mean, I’m fine.”

He gave her a look and put his palm out expectantly. “Give me your hand, Miss Michaels.”

She lifted her chin.

He raised his eyebrow. “We can stand here all night.”

Whatever, this was dumb. She flung her hand out. “It’s nothing. Just a little bruise.”

He took her hand in both of his, his touch gentle.

And warm. His touch was like pressing up against bricks that had baked in the sun. The dark, woodsy scent of Sandalwood swirled in her lungs.

And something else . . .

Juniper. He smelled of juniper. She recognized it from the gin Max drank sometimes.

Without realizing what she was doing, she inhaled more deeply.

He bent his head as he studied the bruises, the movement making the silver in his hair look like tinsel.

She swallowed against a suddenly dry throat.

“You have a little cut here,” he murmured, touching a fingertip to her knuckle. He lifted his head. “This is from that punch you gave me.”

“I . . .” She had to clear her throat. “I’m sorry about that. You threatened to kill me.”

One side of his mouth twitched. “Semantics, Miss Michaels. I asked you to give me a reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”

“Well, I’m not a witch.” Was that her voice sounding breathless and weak?

Even more than his grip on her hand, his blue eye seemed to root her to the ground.

“No,” he said, holding her gaze, his voice soft. “You’re not a witch.”

She drew in a shaky breath, which seemed harder than before—as if the air had thickened. He wasn’t ugly. Not really. It was just that the scars were so deep and so many it was the first thing anyone could see.

How had he gotten them? Werewolves could heal just about any injury. Cuts sealed themselves. Broken bones knit back together on their own. For injuries to leave such gruesome scars, he must have been on the brink of death.

A muscle in his jaw twitched, and she realized she was staring. Heat rushed up her neck.

“Um. I should . . .” She dropped her gaze and tried tugging her hand from his. “Go.”

He tightened his grip. “Not yet.”

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