Page 63 of What a Wolf's Heart Decides

Another scoffing sound.

Fresh pain surged down his thigh, the knives turning to pincers that formed searing bands around his muscle. He clenched his jaw. “Plenty of wolves have jobs.”

“Yeah, but they’re not Alphas.”

The mountain road narrowed, becoming rougher and less accessible. The wolves of Elder Lake kept it that way on purpose—anything to deter humans from visiting town. Even so, a few found their way onto main street a couple times a month. They usually didn’t stay long.

Haley’s stare was a presence against the side of his face. It had been a long time since he resented the eye patch and the loss of his vision. Now, his fingers twitched with the need to pull to the side of the road so he could look her in the eye.

Or just look at her.

He swallowed hard—and kept his gaze on the road. He’d done enough looking back at the hospital. He shouldn’t have let her get dressed without help, but then she’d lifted her chin—her cheeks flushed and her blue eyes flashing—and let him know he’d have a fight on his hands if he stayed in the room.

And, damn, if some part of him hadn’t wanted a fight. Normally, his wolf was dormant when he worked. But the moment Haley tossed her head and practically dared him to cross her, it reared its head and snarled.

In satisfaction.

The wolf couldn’t speak, but something about her challenge had roused the beast. Before he’d realized what was happening, the creature had made him lean toward her and let her know how much it would enjoy tamping down her little rebellion.

He could have kicked his own ass for threatening a woman with violence. Yet the wolf hadn’t meant it that way.

On the contrary, there had been just one meaning behind the beast’s intentions.

Judging from the way her eyes widened and her heart rate sped up, she got the message loud and clear.

Retreat had been the only option.

Some kind of Alpha he was, tucking his tail between his legs and running out of the room like a frightened rabbit. Not that he’d run, exactly. He didn’t run anywhere these days.

Hadn’t for a very long time.

“You’re good at it,” she said suddenly, breaking the silence in the car.

“What?” He jerked his head toward her, catching a glimpse of her face before the curving road demanded his attention again. Because he lacked depth perception, he couldn’t afford to lose focus on the twists and turns.

“Being a doctor,” she said. The weight of her gaze intensified, letting him know he had her full attention. “You were good with that human.”

Her praise curled around him, warming him from within. Deep in his consciousness, his wolf purred.

Fool. Bard sent the wolf a mental image of himself scowling. She was just being polite. He cleared his throat. “You mean the car accident.”

“Yes.” She was quiet a moment. Then, “You used your Gift on him.”

Ah, so she’d felt that. Of course she had. He gave her another quick look. “It doesn’t do much for them. Our Gifts.”

“But it helps?”

He shrugged. “Best I can tell, it calms them. Nothing more.” It wasn’t for lack of trying on his part. In his early days as a resident, he’d had one or two hopeless cases—the kind of patients experienced doctors and nurses know to make comfortable until the inevitable happens. Against everything he’d been taught as a Healer, he tried using his Gift. It never worked. Not on gunshot wounds or heart attacks. The humans always died, and he was left drained and shaking, his Gift depleted like shriveled grapes on a vine.

But he’d discovered an unexpected quirk when the nurses and EMTs in the room seemed calmer. Less traumatized by the noise and chaos of the truly bad cases they all hoped to never see. Werewolf law was clear. It was forbidden to reveal the species’ Gifts to humans. There were harsh penalties for those who broke the rules.

Then again, he wasn’t really revealing anything, was he? And as for penalties . . . well, there were worse things than death.

In fact, facing off with the Grim Reaper could be downright pleasant compared to other experiences he could think of.

Haley murmured something, jolting him from his thoughts. She must have turned forward again, because her voice faded a little. “You’re lucky.” Her tone was musing . . . almost wistful. “If I had a Gift, I’d want it to be something useful like healing.”

Unable to see her, he pictured her expression—those full lips turned down, and the sky-blue eyes full of longing. She was the only wolf he’d met who didn’t have a Gift. Sure, latents didn’t have them, but every fully Turned wolf had some sort of enhanced ability.

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