Page 86 of The Wolf King

He nudges me back down. Before I can protest, he lies across my lap. His weight is even greater than Blake’s and his heat sears me through my dress.

“Goddess,” I gasp. “Callum. . . get off me, you big oaf. . .”

When I push him, he snaps at the air close to my hand.

“Callum!”

He rests his chin on the carpet of leaves.

“What are you doing? You’d better not be—” He closes his eyes. “Don’t you dare go to sleep!”

He opens one lazy eye. And—even in his wolf form—I catch the glint of amusement.

And the stupid bloody brute closes his eyes again.

I try to wriggle out from beneath him, but I cannot move. It’s as if there’s a boulder trapping me. A big, warm, breathing, snoring, stupid wolf-shaped boulder.

I push him a couple more times, but he doesn’t even stir.

I cry out, exasperated, as I realize it’s no use.

“You are just as infuriating as a wolf as you are as a man!”

I lie back, and stare up at the slithers of moonlight through the branches of the trees. A breathy sound comes out of him that sounds almost like a laugh.

Around us, the leaves whisper and thick hedges rustle and the darkness creeps. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howls.

And yet, somehow, despite everything that has just happened, I know I am safe.

***

I open my eyes to grey sunlight seeping through the branches overhead.

I groan. My back aches, and my eyelids are heavy. There’s a dull throb in my temple and one of my arms is ice-cold. My mouth is bone-dry. The sound of water is tantalizingly close behind me, and small droplets of it splash my forehead as it rushes over the rocks.

I try to move to it, but I can’t. I’m trapped. I cannot move my legs.

I glance down, and breathe in sharply.

Callum is curled over my lap, and he is no longer in wolf form.

His head is resting on my stomach, one big arm slung protectively over my body. He’s facing away from me, his muscular shoulders rising and falling in time with his steady breathing.

And he’s completely naked.

Goddess!

I stare up at the branches and steady my breathing—fighting the flush in my cheeks. Quietly, I push myself onto my elbows and look again.

My eyes trace the bulge of his biceps, then the broadness of his shoulders. An urge to touch him flares inside me.

Tentatively, I raise one hand, and hover it above his back. His body heat sears my fingertips as I move closer.

He stirs, making a soft, gruff sound at the back of his throat. Hurriedly, I lie back down again, pinning my hands to my sides.

He pushes himself up onto his forearms.

“Morning, Princess,” he says.

---