Page 100 of Grace of a Wolf 2
I've seen that look on Caine's face plenty of times. I know exactly what I'm seeing.
My wolf whimpers in the back of my head. Fucking coward. He's been a mess ever since Lyre turned the angel-man into a toad.
And yeah, maybe it made my knees turn to rubber for a bit, too. But I'm over it. He isn't.
She opens the door and slides out with liquid grace.
"Don't get comfortable," she says flatly, not looking at any of us. "We're not staying."
Not like any of us would want to stick around this stench.
I give her a sidelong look and a grunt of acknowledgment. But when she starts moving toward the shed, I step in front of her, putting my body between hers and whatever fucked-up thing waits inside.
It's stupid. She could probably turn me into a smear on the ground with less effort than it takes me to shift. But some instincts run deeper than self-preservation.
When I glance behind her, she's got one perfect brow arched like she knows what I'm doing, and she doesn't find it cute.
It's fine.
It isn't like I'm trying to get brownie points. Yet.
This is just basic manners.
And maybe a way for her to notice my ass. I've heard it's pretty fantastic.
The scent of death gets stronger with each step toward the shed. My brain splits three ways—one part screamingbadmagic, one part tracking the positions of everyone in our group, and one part...
One part won't stop looking back at her.
The rising sun sets fire to her rainbow hair, turning each strand into a different jewel tone. Her skin glows in the warm light, those freckles standing out across the bridge of her nose. She should look exhausted after an all-night drive through hell and back, but instead she looks...
Fierce. Powerful. Fuckable.
Way, way too fuckable.
"Lot of birds," Thom comments, following us and still oblivious.
Andrew smacks him on the back; I can hear the movement, but I can't see his face. He's probably exasperated by the human's inability to sense what we all do.
At least his vapid commentary helps break me out of my lustful thoughts.
She doesn't thank me for taking point, but I swear there's a flicker of something like approval in her eyes when she thinks I'm not watching. Or maybe it's wishful thinking. It sends a dart of heat straight to my groin, which is the absolute wrong reaction to have while walking toward what smells like certain death.
As we near the shed, the stench grows powerful enough to make my eyes water, and my libido finally takes notice and backs down. I track the change in Lyre's posture—the way her shoulders tighten, her steps becoming more deliberate, her breathing shallow.
I glance back at her for what feels like the thousandth time. Maybe taking point was a terrible idea. I want to be able to see her at all times. Owen, the blockhead, gets in my damn way, coming to stand beside me with his fists clenched as he stares at the door.
Of course, he probably has no idea I'm over here ogling the strange witch-woman, but logic does nothing to temper my irritation. Of course, I'm not the kind of guy to show it. Shove it down. Jack-Eye is easygoing and calm at all times, damn it.
"Is it her?" he asks Lyre. At least, I assume he's asking her, since none of us know what he's talking about.
She doesn't answer right away. Her right hand lifts slowly, palm out, and a soft glow builds beneath her skin, like she's captured stars beneath her skin. Only brighter, because you can even see them with the sun out.
"No," she says, her voice weary with a knowledge none of us share. "In some ways it's worse."
The door swings open.
Chapter forty-seven
