Page 16 of Wolfgang

It was foolish to worry. No one was taking Eric away from him.

No one.

six

Eric

Ericwokeviolently,hiseyes opening in a panic to stare at an unfamiliar ceiling, his hands already moving along his body to check for injuries.

He remembered pain. So much pain. His last conscious memory was of thinking he’d been literally burning alive, from the inside out. He was half-afraid all his hands were going to encounter was a shriveled, charred husk.

But what skin he could reach with his fingers felt intact. And he didn’t actually hurt now. Like, at all.

He was in a bed, he was pretty sure. It certainly felt soft enough underneath him, not like the firm massage table at all. But it sure as shit didn’t feel like hisownbed (the sheets were way too silky, for one), which was why he was having trouble taking his eyes off the ceiling to look around. Because he really wasn’t sure he was going to like what he saw. He might completely freak the fuck out, actually.

“You’re awake.”

Eric shot up with a start, turning at the same time to seehimat his bedside, massive book in hand.

“You,” Eric spat out, fingers clenching in the absurdly soft sheets.

The Bond villain or masseur or whatever the fuck he was arched a brow at Eric’s vehemence. “That’s right, I never did introduce myself properly,” Psycho said with a polite, insincere smile, as if he hadn’t been literally eating Eric alive just a few—had it been minutes? Hours?Days?—well, some amount of time ago. “My name is Wolfgang Volker, but you may call me Wolfe.”

And that really confirmed it: he even had a Bond villain name. On top of that, he’d exchanged his black loungewear for some absurd maroon crushed-velvet suit. Total villain attire. And he wanted to be on a first-name basis? “I’ll call you the fucker thatbitme.”

The polite smile turned into a sly, self-satisfied smirk. “Mm. Yes. And how delicious you were.”

“Um.” Well, what was Eric supposed to say to that? Except the obvious. “It hurt,” he accused, mortified to note that his voice came out petulant again, like that of a child getting an unexpected shot at the doctor.

“It wasn’t the bite that hurt you but the transformation.”

“Transformation, what—?” But Eric dropped the question, distracted. There was that bergamot scent again, stronger than before, and so weirdly appealing.

Smells good, Eric thought. And something, some…presence…inside him, rumbled its agreement.

What. The. Fuck?

Eric stiffened, trying to figure out what exactly was going on in his own brain. His own body. He felt oddly compelled to follow that scent. To bury his face in it. To…lick the source?

No, that was fucking crazy.

He barely dared to inhale as he watched the villainous fucker—Wolfe, and if he wasn’t lying, the name certainly suited him—cock his head, clearly clocking Eric’s change in body language. “Do you feel it?” he asked, the picture of mild, academic curiosity.

“Feel what?” Eric asked warily.

“The new part of your being.” And yeah, the guy’s general expression may have been mild, but his light-brown eyes were filled with a weirdly intense gleam. “The inner beast awakening.”

Eric tried to laugh it off, but his throat only made a strange, strangled sound. “That sounds like some werewolf shit.”

“I’m afraid not.” Wolfe’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “The shedding alone would be a nightmare.”

Eric refused to find that funny. He pointed an accusatory finger. “You hadfangs. Like a vampire.”

“Yes. Quite like a vampire.” The tiny, amused smile Wolfe gave him made Eric want to smack him. Or… He didn’t know what else.

Again, licking was a possibility.

No.Jesus, what was wrong with him?

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