Page 10 of Runt of the Pack
My inner wolf keens joyfully, reveling in our linked hands and his warmth so near. Traitorous woman that I am, I cannot deny a similar rightness in this simple contact. My instincts howl to curl up beside this wounded brute and offer what comfort I can. To lay my head on that broad chest and listen to the steady beat of his great heart.
I know I should pull away, leave this room before I’m drawn any deeper into Vladimir’s unpredictable orbit. But never have I felt more torn between duty and desire. Would allowing myself to indulge in this small affection really be so dangerous? Perhaps this stranger will depart soon and leave my well-ordered world unchanged. And so, I remain seated vigilantly beside him as morning stretches towards afternoon. Watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, our fingers loosely entwined like old friends. Or even lovers.
Dangerous, foolish thoughts. I repeat the warnings in my head like a mantra, though they do little to drown out my reckless longing. This man is not my mate or companion. Only a happenstance guest, his stay fleeting. I would do well to remember that, no matter how the she-wolf inside me whines and begs.
Still... I make no move to disentangle our hands as Vladimir slumbers on. Craving even this faint connection for just a little while longer.
9
VLAD
I’m lost in a captivating fantasy, my hands tangled in Anya’s silken mahogany hair. Our lips crash together urgently, hers so incredibly warm and soft against my own. She tastes of honey and whispered secrets. My wolf howls triumphantly, craving more of her addictive sweetness.
I trail hungry kisses down the elegant column of her throat, feeling her racing pulse under my tongue. Her quiet gasps and sighs of pleasure intoxicate me. I nip at the tender skin just above her collarbone, needing to mark her, claim her as mine. Anya arches into me, fingers digging into my shoulders, silently begging for more.
My hands roam her lithe form, tracing each curve through her thin linen shift. I break our kiss to nuzzle the valley between her breasts, inhaling the floral scent that’s been driving my wolf to the brink of madness. Anya’s breath hitches, lashes fluttering. She guides my mouth back to hers and I’m lost again, drowning in her heat.
Oh, gods. We shouldn’t. Not yet... But my willpower dissolves against the onslaught of desire, the ferocious need to bond with this exquisite creature in every way. Anya seems just as lost, her kisses growing more insistent. I must have her, make her fully mine, fate and propriety be damned.
I trail my kiss along her sharp jawline to the sensitive spot beneath her ear. “Say you’re mine,” I demand hoarsely.
Anya moans, surrendering to my touch. And then, her lips part briefly to answer...
“Vladimir?”
Anya’s melodic voice pierces the haze of desire. I blink awake, the dream fading as morning light filters into the cramped bedroom. She sits at my bedside, regarding me curiously.
“Time to change your dressings,” she says briskly, though twin spots of color bloom on her cheekbones. Does she guess the nature of my fevered visions? Shame flushes through me. She’s not mine to fantasize about, no matter how my lonely wolf might ache for her.
Clearing my throat, I struggle to sit up with Anya’s help. Her nearness makes my pulse race anew, the phantom taste of her lips still tingling on my tongue. I force myself to be still as she carefully unwinds the bandages swaddling my wounds. But my hungry gaze traces the elegant line of her throat, recalling how I kissed and nipped that tender skin in my unrestrained dream.
A low rumble escapes my chest before I can prevent it. Anya’s eyes widen at the sound, her own breath quickening. Does she also feel this electric draw between us, as if we’re connected by some deeper bond?
I clench my fists, fighting the urge to pull her against me. She is not mine to take such liberties with. But the wolf within whines and paces, craving her nearness.
Anya looks up at me through dark lashes. “Is something wrong?” Her voice is husky, uncertain.
I shake my head mutely, not trusting my own ragged voice. We stare at each other, the air suddenly charged.
With a soft inhale, Anya turns back to her task, the facade of composure back in place. “Let’s get these dressings changed, shall we?”
I nod, pulse racing as her hands gently peel away the bandages swaddling my wounds. Her touches seem lighter than before, almost tentative. Does she intuit how she affects me? I dare not hope I might stir a similar longing in her.
I sit perfectly still, studying her lowered face intently. Delicate brows knot in concentration, teeth worrying her full lower lip. A wayward lock of mahogany hair spills over her cheek and my fingers itch to brush it back, to feel if her skin is as smooth and warm as it appears.
I clench my traitorous hand, tamping down the instinct. Anya has been unfailingly gracious, taking me in and nursing me back from death’s door. I will not repay that kindness by presuming any unwelcome familiarity. No matter how this waifish girl intrigues me, with her contradictory mix of timidity and quiet strength.
Anya’s nimble fingers work slowly along my arm, revealing the stylized wolves inked there. “Oh… Do you like wolves?” she asks abruptly, tracing one outlined form. My breath catches at the contact, even that simple graze kindling sparks beneath my skin.
I master my features to stillness, cursing my wolf’s predictable reaction to her nearness. “I do,” I answer neutrally, hoping my voice does not betray my quickened pulse. This is unwise, dangerous. If she guesses what I am, the tentative trust between us could unravel in an instant.
Oblivious to my inner turmoil, Anya just nods. “That’s nice.” She withdraws her hand and my arm feels suddenly cold without her touch. I flex my fingers involuntarily, craving her warmth again, even knowing I should keep my distance. But this girl has stirred something reckless in me, an irresistible pull like gravity, inescapable.
“Do you?” I ask, needing to keep her talking, to learn more of what lurks behind those fathomless dark eyes.
Anya busies herself tidying the medical supplies, avoiding my stare. “Sometimes,” she says evasively.
My instincts bristle at her reticence. She hides something beneath that timid facade. Is it mere shyness... or deeper secrets? The mysteries surrounding Anya only increase my fascination.
