Page 81 of What a Wolf's Heart Decides

Someone who could give her everything.

As he traced the scars above his eye, blood from his hand dripped onto his cheek. A fat drop quivered on his cheekbone, then slipped down his face and plopped in the sink.

He lowered his hand, his gaze on the gash from the sink.

It wouldn’t heal. Not as a werewolf’s injury should. His cuts never did.

But what was one more scar when he already had so many?

Haley didn’t care about the scars. She didn’t care about appearances at all.

Another reason he couldn’t have her.

She didn’t yet understand that scars could be a warning. Sometimes things on the outside were there for a reason.

Yeah, she was everything good. And he’d brushed against evil years ago. That filth still clung to him.

He’d be damned if he let it touch her.

And that meant he couldn’t touch her, either.

He looked in the mirror again, his damaged eye gazing blindly back at him. The scars crisscrossed his face, running over his features as if he’d been cut apart and stitched back together.

Coward. Cripple. Cruel bastard.

Pain scrabbled sharp claws up his thigh, digging into his hip. In the mirror, his good eye lightened as his wolf rose to the surface, its jaws stretched in an angry roar.

It wanted the female. The beast cared nothing for good versus evil. Those were human concerns.

Bard clenched his fists. Warm blood trickled over his hand.

The beast howled. His gums ached as his fangs threatened to descend.

Blood rushed into his face, but his scars stayed a livid white.

Always, always they reminded him of what he couldn’t have.

The face in the mirror mocked him.

Coward. Cripple. Cruel bastard.

The smell of blood grew stronger, snuffing out the wildflowers.

In the mirror, his mouth opened on a soundless howl.

His bloodied fist flew, smashing the glass into a thousand pieces.

14

A crashing sound rent the air, making Haley freeze in the act of stuffing clothes in her suitcase. She swiped at the tears on her face and listened, straining to hear more.

Nothing.

Maybe Bard dropped something. Or fell.

She turned her head toward the bedroom door. What if his leg failed him again and he hurt himself? He could have hit his head this time. He could be sprawled on the ground, unconscious and injured.

Somewhere below, a door opened followed by faint footsteps with Bard’s signature limping gait.

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