Page 18 of What a Wolf's Heart Decides

And terrified.

It was there in her wide blue eyes and the frantic beat of her heart. For a moment, he almost told her to take deep breaths to slow it down.

Almost.

Instead, Bard Bennett tightened his grip and pulled her even closer, until her cheek brushed his and her lips were even with his ear.

She squirmed, the muscles in her upper arms straining against his hold.

“Hold still,” he said. She might not like this, but it was necessary.

Proving she most certainly did not like it, she jerked her head away from his. “Are you insane? What are you doing?”

He released one of her arms so he could palm the back of her head and force her back to where he wanted her. “I said hold still.”

She fought, but she was no match for him.

Must not be trying too hard, then. Because if she was what he suspected, she could best him. At least, she could if she’d planned far enough in advance.

Anger rose hot and wild in his gut. Her kind never did play by the rules.

He slid his hand to her nape, dislodging her knit cap. Light brown hair spilled around her shoulders, and her struggles sent a whiff of flowers up his nose. Soft curls brushed his hands.

Good. Seizing a handful, he dragged her head to the side and buried his face in her neck.

She gasped . . . then let out a low, pained whimper. Her heart beat faster, her pulse visible in the jugular vein jumping erratically in the smooth column of her neck.

Again, he almost barked an order for her to slow her breathing. Again, he bit it back before it could leave his mouth.

He couldn’t afford to let his guard down—not even a little bit. Not with someone like her.

Ignoring her ragged breaths, he closed his eyes and lowered his nose to the hollow where her neck met her shoulder.

She jumped. With her free hand, she clawed at his forearm, her fingers digging into his heavy ski jacket.

No matter. The thick material prevented her from doing any damage. But he needed to hurry before she got smart and realized it was better to go for his face. Or his good eye.

He took a deep breath, letting her scent fill his lungs. Clean skin and the more subtle aroma of flowers swirled around his senses.

Which was . . . odd.

Pressing closer, nose over her vein, he dragged in another breath. Good eye squeezed shut, he focused on her scent. Like every other living thing, it had layers—some more difficult to detect than others. There was soap, a surface scent that was a mix of perfume and chemicals. There was also a faint whiff of salt, which probably came from the detergent on her clothes.

And there was something light and feminine and altogether hers—an elusive scent that conjured images of green, open fields and wildflower blooms pressed in the pages of books. Of blue skies and skirts twirling in a wide arc under a shining sun.

It was like . . . spring. She smelled of spring.

God, he could almost taste it.

Without even really knowing what he was doing, he turned his head, letting his cheek nestle in the sweet crook of her neck.

Her pulse leaped against his lips. The elusive, tantalizing scent grew stronger.

He breathed more deeply . . .

. . . and detected none of the blood he’d expected to find.

It should have been there—a raw, coppery base. No matter how many oils or potions her people rubbed into their skin, they all had it. The humans associated it with vampires, but they were so completely, hopelessly wrong.

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