Page 75 of The Wolf King

Every muscle in Callum’s body is tense. He shuts his eyes. But not before I see what is behind his eyelids.

His pupils are dilated. His irises are a different shape, and brighter, somehow.

They are not Callum’s eyes. They are not the eyes of a man. They have changed.

They’re the eyes of a wolf.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

My grip on the silver letter opener is so tight that my knuckles are white.

The door is maybe a ten-foot dash from where I am, but I don’t think I can make it.

Every story I’ve ever heard about Wolves crashes through my mind; stories about torn flesh, massacred villages, blood and gore and murder.

At some point since I was taken, I let myself forget the cold, hard truth.

This male can turn into a wolf.

Callum is breathing heavily, and his hands grip the bedsheets on either side of him.

“It’s okay.” His voice is as rough as gravel. “You’re safe.”

“Your eyes. . .”

“I know.”

My breathing is fast, and my hand trembles as I brandish the ridiculously small weapon in front of me. “Are you going to turn into a wolf?”

His jaw clenches. “No. I can’t. Only on a full moon.”

I glance at the window. The candlelight is reflected in the glass. Beyond it, the mountains hide the shape of the moon.

“It’s not a full moon,” he says, a hint of amusement in his tone, as if he knows I’m checking.

“But I saw. . . your eyes.”

“Aye.” He lets out a shaky breath. “That happens sometimes. When I get a bit... emotional. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

I exhale. “You’re not going to change?”

“No. You’re perfectly safe.”

I frown. “Are you sure?”

He laughs, though it sounds a little forced. “Aye. I’m sure.”

My toes uncurl from the bedsheets. I move a little closer to him, and he tenses.

The floorboards creak as I slip off the bed. Warily, I approach.

He shifts his body in tandem with my movements, so that he’s facing me—his thighs slightly parting as I step between them. My legs brush against his kilt. His broad chest moves up and down deeply.

He smells like the outdoors, like the Northlands winds have clung to his skin and his clothing—but there’s heat beneath it. Like spice and woodsmoke. And he’s warm. So warm. How can a male radiate such heat?

His face tilts up, and candlelight flickers across his closed eyelids. The movement exposes his throat to me, and I hold the silver blade between us.

I take a shaky breath. “I want to see.”

---