Page 27 of What a Wolf's Heart Decides

The anger lent her confidence, and she stepped into the study with her chin held high.

Bard sat behind a desk, his head bent over a laptop, fingers moving over the keyboard. He paused his typing and pointed to a chair without looking up. “Sit.”

She clenched her fists. “I’m not a dog!”

The typing ceased, and he looked up. His scarred mouth twitched, and his piercing blue eye narrowed. “No, but you are exhausted and experiencing frequent tachycardia.” His gaze focused on her face. “When did you last eat or drink anything?”

Caught off guard, she answered without thinking. “Uh . . . not since the flight from New York. So . . .” How long had it been since she’d eaten? Abruptly, her stomach growled. She slapped a hand over her midsection.

The scarred lips twitched. He pointed to the chair again. In a softer voice, he said, “Sit, please.”

In a daze, she walked to the chair and sat.

He regarded her for a moment, his red plaid shirt a sharp contrast to the dark upholstery of his chair and the equally dark wood of his desk. Light from a lamp on his desk picked up the silver in his hair, giving him the look of a distinguished lumberjack. Or maybe a well-heeled pirate.

She bit the inside of her cheek. Why the hell was she assessing his looks? This was a male who, less than an hour ago, held her down and sniffed her neck. Any second now, he was going to say something rude or bark another order at her.

His gaze roved over her face. “I’ll make this short, and then we’ll get you something to eat.”

Okay, so maybe her predictions were off a little. She opened her mouth to reply.

“And slow your breathing,” he added. “You’re not used to the altitude here. Those fast respirations will give you one hell of a headache.”

She snapped her mouth shut. Since when was he so concerned about her health?

He pushed the laptop away and settled back in his chair. “Now, tell me about the Rupert letter.”

“What’s tac . . . tachy . . .”

“Tachycardia.” His gaze dipped to her chest. “Rapid heartbeat.”

Warmth spread over her chest and crept up her neck. For a man with one eye, his gaze was unusually . . . pointed.

He cleared his throat. “The Rupert letter.”

She looked up. He’d looked up, too, and now his right cheekbone was ruddy.

From the punch she’d given him?

As if on cue, her fist throbbed. She glanced at her knuckles. Sure enough, a faint bruise darkened the ridges.

“Miss Michaels.”

She forced her gaze back up. “Yes?”

He spoke in a deliberate voice that told her he was running out of patience. “The letter.”

Right. It seemed she wasn’t getting out of explaining it. She took a deep breath and told him everything, from Max calling her into his office to her excitement over the possibility of seeing wild horses in the mountains.

When she finished, Bard was silent a moment. Then, “You came all this way to see some horses and go on a date with a man you’ve never met?”

Good grief, he made it sound terrible. She forced a shrug. “I worked with horses growing up.”

“As a werewolf?” His tone was skeptical.

“As a latent. Former latent.”

“Ah.” Understanding lit his gaze. “You’re one of Simard’s Bloodsinger wolves.”

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