Lord of the Wolfyn - By Jessica Andersen Page 0,64
she said, “I think I’m a test.”
“A… Oh.” He stared at her. “No. That’s impossible.”
“Is it?” Looping the reins in one hand, she crossed her arms and just looked at him.
No, it wasn’t impossible and they both knew it. More, it made a horrible sort of sense. He was supposed to remember his priorities and his true self. And just as the voice that had come to him as he floated out of his body had demanded a sacrifice from him in exchange for another chance, the magic—and his father—could be trying to teach him the lessons he hadn’t yet learned, the ones Elden needed him to master. Focus. Dedication. Discipline. Humility.
Gods, no. Not this way. He wanted to make it up to her, to be with her. Their time together had been the brightest spot, not just in the past two decades, but in all the years he had been alive. With her, he had been a man, an individual, a lover, a mate.
Sacrifice.
Moving slowly, keeping an eye on the horse, he crossed to her. The bay gave a half rear, but then subsided and held its ground, nostrils flaring as he came up beside them, close enough to touch her leg, though he didn’t.
He was viscerally aware of the long curves of her taut muscles beneath the cavalry breeches, though, and the familiar royal crest stamped into the leather at the top of her boot, now wearing a slash that indicated it was part of a rebellion, some sort of organized resistance. And deep down inside him where the wolfyn magic dwelled, arousal and satisfaction mingled at the sight of her wearing his family colors. He wanted to drape her in fine silks in those same colors, wanted to run their slippery softness over her body, then follow the same paths with his hands and lips. He hadn’t even begun to deal with her loss, could barely comprehend her return.
But, gods and the Abyss, she could be right that this was a test, a call for him to prove that he had learned his lesson. And a reminder that Elden needed him—or rather, them—to do their duties and hold true to their roles despite their feelings.
Not to mention…what were her feelings? He couldn’t see beyond her guarded, impassive mask, the one that seemed to say, This is the situation. What are you going to do about it? He knew the look from his father’s elite security forces, could guess that it went with being on the humans’ police force. And it drove home not only her new confidence—or, he suspected, the emergence of a deep-seated confidence that had been within her all along—but also that she had a life outside of him, duties of her own.
When he’d asked her to come with him, he had been so caught up in not wanting their gallop to end, so focused on getting what he most desired, that he’d lost sight of her needs and desires outside of the two of them. More, he had lied to her—by omission, yes, but a grave sin considering the lie. And the fact that he hadn’t even considered telling her. Just as he had hidden his blood-drinking self from Keely, he had planned to leave Reda entirely ignorant of the spell-curse that had turned him into his own prey.
Son of a bitch. He hadn’t grown up nearly as much as he’d wanted to think.
Aware that the silence was stretching thin, he tried to find the words, but didn’t know where to start, or how. Or even whether he should try.
Yes, he needed to try. He owed that to his honor, and to her.
He touched her knee, curving his fingers around the flesh and bone, not meaning the gesture as a come-on, but rather hoping the touch would carry his sincerity to her through the fitful emotional link he had felt once or twice before.
“I got so caught up in the rush that I lost sight of my honor and your right to have the same honesty from me that you had offered me. For that, I am ashamed.” He tightened his fingers on her knee. “By the gods, Reda, I’m sorry.”
She went white for a second, expression stark, but then flushed hard and hot as her eyes took on a dangerous glint as she leaned down to bat his arm away and hiss, “You’re sorry? You enthralled me, you unholy bastard.”