Page 47 of A Dusk Of Stars

I hear a sharp “No—” broken off by a groan filled with frustrated anger. The arm loosens a little, but only for a split second. When it tightens again, its grip is ironclad. I can’t move my upper body at all.

There’s the voice ringing in my head, so unbearably familiar, but I don’t let myself linger on it, because he’s managed to drag me all the way out, my legs flailing in the air above the hard ground of the river shore.

When he puts me down and pulls the arm away, I waste no time. My legs refusing to obey, I throw myself on all fours and start furiously crawling back into the water.

A muffled curse reaches me. The very next moment, his body is blocking my way, his hands mercilessly pulling me up. “Will you stop that?” I hear the voice — pissed-off and choked-up, as he forces me to stand straight.

Practically blind with tears and river water, I don’t let the voice get to me. I try to walk around him only to bump into his chest, hard. I try torunaround him. Once. Twice. I can’t seem to fucking escape him.

The third time I try, he grabs me by the upper arms, holding me so tight, I can’t move an inch. “Stop, goddamnit,” he spits out, his anger only seeming to grow. “Focus on my voice.”

I don’t even want to look at him. If I look at him, let alone listen to him, I might never get back into the water.Thenwhen will all this stop?

I let out an angry, dragged-out groan, putting all my strength into getting his hands off me and hitting him in the chest with both my palms to push him away.

Remaining as still as a rock, he snatches my wrists and gets in my face, making me turn my head to the side. “I saidfocus on my voice,” he orders with a roughness that instantly makes all my muscles go limp.

Just like that.

I turn my head to look at him, blinking my tears away. It’s him for sure, but it makes my breath catch, this soft, warm glow radiating off his skin.

“Good,” he says, a little less pissed off. Slowly and with narrowed eyes — as if he’s expecting me to make a run for it, he lets go of my wrists. “Now breathe.”

I listen, trying to drag as much air into my lungs as possible, but only managing short, staggered breaths. It’s only then that I become aware of it. My entire body is shaking. Violently. Have I been shaking like this the entire time?

“Deeper,” he orders.

But the shaking just won’t die down.

Unceremoniously, he peels my soaking wet jacket off and drops it to the ground. It surprises me, that I don’t even flinch, let alone try to stop him. But it does make me frown, when he takes his own jacket off and slings it over my shoulders. Leather, only wet on the outside. Almost instantly, it makes the shaking start subsiding — its warmth against my skin and his scent filling my nostrils.

It takes me a second to fight off the urge to bury my nose in it.

“What’re you,” I start in a rough voice, breaking off to take a shaky lungful of air, “doing here?”

He studies me for a second, then lets out a pent-up breath and takes a small, cautious step back without taking his eyes off me. It’s in a serious, but much less pissed-off voice that he says, “I’m a shifter, Novak. I like to spend time in the Lycan Forest.” Then, through gritted teeth but strangely softly, “What were you doing?”

I barely register the words. I’m so cold and shaken up, and his voice and that glow radiating off his skin — they’re making me want to get closer, promising warmth and safety unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.

“Answer the question,” comes a patient demand.

I don’t hesitate. I just blurt out, “Scorpio.”

“Scorpio?” he echoes. I’m almost squirming with the need to get closer to him, but my answer is making him frown again. “Don’t you know how dangerous that is? Huh?”

It jolts me back to focus, the disapproval in his voice. I press my lips tight and I tear my eyes away from him, suddenly aware of how stupid, childish and pathetic I must seem. Still, I find myself whispering, more to myself than him, “I need to do this.”

With the corner of my eye, I see him run his hand down his face and hear him mumble something to himself, making out only “stubborn” and “death of me.”

Feeling a sob coming on, I clench my jaw and move to walk away, planning on taking a walk and returning when he's gone.

He flinches, but doesn’t try to stop me. “When’s your next opportunity?” I hear him ask.

I stop midstep. I frown. “Two weeks,” I say in a low, joyless voice.

He lets out a sigh. “Fine. You can forget about special classes, but in two weeks, you’re meeting me here and you’re doing the ritual undermysupervision.”

I turn to look at him again, defiance in my eyes. “I can still—”

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