Page 75 of Wolf's Keep
She blinked. What the hell?
“You’re… You’renaked!” She swallowed a small moan. Even now, with the threat of the comte finding them, she longed to run her hands over those perfect abs. She shook her head, pushing such thoughts from her mind. “Whyare you naked?”
“Erin, come here.”
He held his hands out to her. Her feet, of their own volition, obeyed. Her hands slid into his, seeking something solid, something human to hold on to. She raised her eyes to meet his.
“There is no easy way to say this.”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple jerking up and down. For the first time since she’d met him, Gaharet d’Louncrais looked unsure of himself.
“I cannot travel on horseback with you because the horse will not tolerate my presence. I have not trained him to accept me as I have with my horse. You saw him with Aimon. It would be the same for me.” He licked his slips. “The reason is—” He closed his eyes, exhaled, opened his eyes. “The reason is… Archeveque Renaud spoke the truth. I am a werewolf.”
Erin stared at him. He thought he was a werewolf. A mythological beast.
She searched his eyes for any hint of confusion, deception, or doubt, but his gaze never wavered. Centuries of scientific knowledge, and her common sense, warred with all those little things she’d noticed about him that were different, unnatural. Little things that on their own amounted to nothing more than an unusually skilled chevalier, an experienced woodsman or a genetic anomaly. Collectively they pointed to a darker truth. She glanced over at the horse some yards away by the tree, its wide, wary eyes fixed on Gaharet. The horse sensed something. Something she could not.
“Erin, please say something.”
There was only one way to know for sure. “Show me.”
He nodded. “Watch closely. I will take it slow.”
Uncertain about what she expected, perhaps nothing at all, at first, she could detect no difference. Then, beneath her palms, his hands changed. Coarse, dark hairs sprouted, his nails changed to claws and his bones shifted under his skin, making strange popping sounds and grinding noises as they reshaped. She gaped as his jaw shifted, elongated, his incisors growing longer.
Holy shit!He really was a werewolf. Afreakingwerewolf!
She jerked out of his hands—no, paws—and took a step away from him. Unable to look away, her heart pounded in her chest, as the Gaharet she knew changed. His body contorted, bones rippling beneath the surface of what was once skin but was now fur. He dropped to all fours, and she stood rooted to the spot as he completed his transformation. Gone was the tenth-century chevalier, the man, the human. In his place a big, black wolf.Theblack wolf.
How had science got it so wrong? And the myths of a half-man, half-wolf monstrosity? They, too, had missed the mark. This was something else entirely.
The wolf—Gaharet— sat down, regarding her. With the transformation, had he become all beast, his mind solely that of a predator? Or did some of the man linger? Awareness and intelligence shone in his eyes. Familiar shadows flitted behind his dark irises. Could it be that he was both manandwolf, regardless of what form he took?
She reached her hand toward him, fingers trembling, palm out. One slow step at a time, he moved closer, placing his big, furry head against her palm. She ruffled his fur with her fingers, and he pressed into her hand. Letting out an explosive breath, she stepped back and Gaharet reverted to human form. He reached for her, unsure and she paused, her insides quivering, her scientific, rational mind incapable of theorizing this away with a single logical explanation other than the obvious.
Gaharet d’Louncrais is a werewolf.
She touched the back of his hand—his skin, human skin, warm to the touch. He was still Gaharet. He wouldn’t hurt her. He hadn’t hurt her yet, and clearly he could have. She slipped her hand into his and he pulled her to him, enfolding her in his arms, kissing the top of her head.
“Thank you,” he murmured against her hair. “Thank you.”
He held her tight, pressed against him, as though unwilling to let her go. This confident, self-assured chevalier had feared her rejection. She’d seen it in his eyes. She pulled away from him. Returning home was going to hurt them both.
“Well, that explains why I found a wolf’s skull, not a human one with remains in the underground cell.”
He frowned. “It would. You did not tell me of that.”
She ignored his jibe. “I have…” She bit her bottom lip. “I have a lot of questions.”
She couldn’t help but be curious. She paced in front of him. What did it feel like, his bones changing like that? Was he born this way? Or, as according to the myths, was he bitten?
A pleased smile tilted the corner of his mouth. “I will answer all your questions, but right now, we need to move. You will ride the horse, and I will travel on foot. Keep far enough behind me so my presence does not cause the horse to bolt but keep your eyes on me.”
He reached for her, halting her pacing and slanted his mouth across hers, and for a moment Erin forgot where she was, forgot where this was all going.
Releasing her, he stepped away. “Let us move from here before Lothair discovers we are no longer in his keep.”
They slung Gaharet’s armor and clothes over the saddle and strapped his sword in place. Untying the horse, Erin hoisted herself into the saddle, sitting astride—decorum be damned. With a white-knuckled grip on the reins, she turned the horse and they set off into the forest. Gaharet in the lead, a mythological beast, a supposed monster, and yet a good man. Leaving him would not be easy.
