Page 75 of A Wolf After My Own Heart
“You’re the lookout, lass.”
“People have said that to me so many times, the words have lost all meaning.”
“Seriously, Lila…” Oz paused while reaching for his top shirt button. “Do you mind?”
“Nope.” What else could she say? Magnus and Oz were already disrobing. She wasn’t sure if she was in a horror movie, a rom-com, or a porn. Or a sick combo that would sound lame but most people would watch anyway for the curiosity factor if nothing else.
She politely turned her back, which tookso much willpowerbecause at quick glance, both men appeared to have the bodies of Olympic athletes. Not a fake sport, like race walking. Something hard, like boxing.She got a quick glimpse of profoundly terrific abs and then stared at a tree.
A lot of people wore tailored suits to fix figure flaws.
Oz Adway was not one of them.
Stupid, ab-less trees.
She could hear…something. Rustling as they dropped their clothes. (Damned good thing Oz had money, because he was hell on his suits. Guy needed a pair of denim overalls in the worst way.) Then sounds like the noise your body makes when you stand and streeeeeetch. The sharp retort of cracking knuckles. Alotof knuckles. Thirty or more. And then more shifting around, sharper cracks, some low, pained grunting, and then a cold nose was nuzzling her palm
“Ack!”
which wasn’t startlingat all. She spun and there was Oz looking up at her.
As she was in a field of mud in the middle of the day, she got a much better look than she had the night before in Macropi’s yard. His head came up to her waist, his ears were longer than her middle finger and tipped with red fur, and he was lean all over with sleek muscles that rippled beneath sand-colored fur. His ears twitched forward as she squatted and held out her hand, palm up. “Gimme.”
The wolf blinked at her.
“Your right forepaw, please.” There was a short pause, and then Oz complied.
“No, yourotherright forepaw.” He obliged and she gently palpated the fur. She’d done a little research; she knew wolves used their claws for digging and traction, not fighting, but she was mindful of the claws anyway; they were dull black, tipped under, and nearly an inch long.
And his paw was perfect, as far as she could tell without a degree in veterinary medicine. “I guess you’re all healed up from the other day.” She released his paw, smiled, stood. “I’m glad.”
She heard a low rumble behind her and turned. Oh. Right. The werebear. She didn’t really care ifhisforepaw hurt, which was good because she had zero interest in getting closer. Berne was massive, there was no other word that fit so well. He would have looked like a common brown bear save for his size; on all fours, he was over two yards long and must have weighed well over one thousand pounds.
Even if his size hadn’t set him apart, his dark brown fur had a violet tint, just like Berne’s human hair.Aww, cute! I think.She’d never heard of a bear with fur that color; maybe they were native to Scotland? What if it wasn’t a natural color? If a Shifter dyed their hair purple, was their fur purple, too? So many questions.
“I’m done gaping now, fellas, thanks for indulging me. Do your—go do your thing. Sniff or scavenge or whatever.” She looked around the mess one last time. “I’m gonna go stand over there where it’s slightly less muddy, which is still pretty muddy, and keep out of your way.” And look out, apparently. But for what? If a van full of state troopers suddenly roared up to the crash site, what was she supposed to do about it?
Too late to worry about that now. She watched as they prowled the crash site, noses down, and it took a minute for her to realize they were working the field in a grid. Oz in particular seemed determine to sniff and paw at everything; she couldn’t imagine the number and depth of scents he was taking in.
They’re not wild; they’re not dumb animals. They’re self-aware apex predators who have avoided detection for millennia. Which is very, very important to keep in mind, pretty much every hour of every day.
It was nuts, but she had no sense of personal danger. She figured Macropi’s gang had had ample opportunity to eat her if that had been the goal. And maybe she was kidding herself, but they all seemed to like her. Or, in Auberon and Berne’s case, tolerate her. Either way, endangered or not, who else in the world was spending their day the way she was?
She could have watched for hours, but it turned out that wasn’t an option. And ironically, given that she was the lookout, Oz and Berne spotted (smelled?) the trouble before she did. It took her a few seconds to realize she hadn’t been ditched, and a few more to realize she had company.
Worst. Lookout. Ever.
Chapter 30
The hell of it was, things had kinda been picking up. She was able to replace the truck’s muffler on her own (no burns this time). Winter had been fought to a draw and was panting in the corner, thinking about a final rush. It was too early for mosquitos. And too late for blizzards. And she’d finally talked her wife into selling the north field, which had been nothing but an unprofitable mud pit for over a decade.
Then: an unbelievable ruckus from—where else?—the north field. Goddamned plane came down like an arrow fired from God: BOOM!
Except it was more likeBOOM!
Wendy, who had bought the farmhouse from her folks when they moved to Arizona (“Fuck shoveling” was how her dad broke the news), heard it like it was happening in the next room, not a mile from the house. She’d rushed off
(now what the holy old hell is this?)
