Page 80 of What a Wolf's Heart Decides

And that had been the goal, right? Mission freaking accomplished.

He wouldn’t have any trouble getting her on a plane now. As soon as his leg calmed down he’d call Joel and arrange a morning pickup. Explain what happened.

Bard grimaced. Except for the incident on the sofa. His father’s Beta didn’t need to know that.

Although Joel would probably find out eventually. The old wolf seemed to know everyone’s secrets.

Bard closed his eyes, weariness and regret stirring in his gut as Haley’s devastated expression swam in his mind. He’d tried to keep her at arm’s length. But Haley Michaels was hard to keep at a distance. She had a way of sneaking under a male’s defenses. Not even the sight of his wrecked and mangled leg phased her. Oh, other females would have expressed sympathy. But the sentiment would have been a thin veneer over repulsion. It wasn’t even their fault. That kind of response was hardwired into a werewolf’s psyche.

But not Haley’s. Her tears had been genuine.

And they smelled of rain.

When she talked about being lonely, her scent rose all around him, filling his lungs with hints of moss and leaves. It was like a long walk through the forest at the end of winter, when the snow melted and promises of spring floated on the air. No matter how cold the snow, there was always hope of sunshine and flowers. That was Haley’s scent.

She smelled of hope—a reminder of the inevitability of spring. The peek of sun through dark clouds. The persistent push of a seedling through frost. The tease of flowers in the air so strong you could almost taste it.

And heaven help him but he’d needed to taste it.

Kissing her was like discovering an oasis after years in a desert. Her mouth was as sweet and pure as her scent, and her little gasps of pleasure made his thirst ratchet higher. Mind clouded by lust, he pulled her onto his lap.

Her pussy was like a little forge, the heat searing him through his scrub pants. But it was her chest that held his attention. Her tits were perfect—high and firm and big enough to fill a male’s hands and then some.

A cracking sound split the air in the small bathroom, then pain shot through his right hand. The smell of copper filled the air. He opened his eyes.

Blood pooled under his palm and trickled into the sink.

He lifted his hand. The sink was cracked, the white porcelain marred by a jagged gray line.

Cursing, he ran cold water and stuck his hand under the faucet. The cold dulled the pain but did little to cool his thoughts. Haley’s scent was still all over him—and would stay that way until he showered. His scent was all over her too. Any wolf that got within ten feet of her would know what happened between them.

He shut off the water.

Images danced through his head. Haley undoing her bra and tossing it aside, her generous breasts quivering with her breaths, the nipples hard and tilted up. Haley’s long neck exposed as she tipped her head back and arched her back, her smooth belly caressed by moonlight. Haley gasping as he sucked her nipple into his mouth, her hands clutching at his head as she writhed on his lap.

The scent of wildflowers had risen thick in the air, as if the heart of spring descended, obliterating the snowstorm outside.

And for the briefest moment, thawing some of the ice on his heart.

He looked in the mirror. The strap of his eye patch was off just a bit, the elastic stretched above a red mark that showed where it normally sat. He lifted both hands, ready to adjust the strap, then stopped. Gaze on the mark, he used a fingertip to trace it, following the groove from the top of his forehead to the corner of his eye. The mark wasn’t a scar, but it was probably just as permanent. Even if he stopped wearing the patch, the groove would remain.

Some things never went away.

He touched the patch. It had been years since he met his gaze in the mirror without it. Hand trembling, he peeled it away. The strap slipped off his head as it had when Haley’s fingers tangled in his hair.

It was a surreal thing, staring into an eye no longer capable of seeing. He ran his fingers over the scars that covered his eyelid, the red lines a garish contrast to the sickly white of his eye with its pinprick pupil.

Haley’s words drifted through his head, her voice high and impassioned. “I don’t care about your leg! Or your scars.”

She didn’t. He’d smelled the truth in her statement.

Because Haley Michaels was everything good.

And that was exactly why he couldn’t have her.

There were other reasons. She was too young for him, for one thing—and too young to realize it.

She deserved a male her own age. A whole male. A mate who could run the forest beside her.

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