War of Hearts (True Immortality) - S Young Page 0,71

pinned Thea in place with his eyes. It was hard to look away as he moved toward her, expression predatory, his huge body rippling with power. He was the most majestic thing Thea had ever seen.

But the flicker of movement behind him drew her attention. The gray-brown wolf rose, his sharp teeth bared.

“Conall!” she warned.

With a growl of animal outrage, Conall spun just as the wolf lunged, using his body weight to pin Conall to the ground. His dominance lasted a mere second before Conall reversed their positions, clamped his jaw around the wolf’s throat and ripped it out.

The wounded wolf behind them whined even louder in obvious grief.

Thea’s sympathy, however, died. Conall had been walking away, letting them both live, but the gray-brown wolf had acted dishonorably.

Wolf Conall made a guttural sound of annoyance and then padded toward Thea, his muzzle now wet with blood. She stood still with wonder, waiting for him to stop and shift, but he came right up to her.

A normal wolf, standing on all four paws, would have come to Thea’s waist. Conall’s head stopped at chest height. His black fur shimmered in the shadows, looking as soft as velvet, and Thea had the unstoppable urge to touch it. Tentatively reaching out, she waited for a sign that Wolf Conall was against being touched. He didn’t give one and so Thea rested her palm gently against the top of his head.

He made a chuffing noise, like he was pleased, and Thea grinned. Growing bolder, she began to pet him. He was soft as velvet. And he liked to be petted. If he’d been a cat, he would be purring. “You’re beautiful,” she whispered.

She’d seen werewolves in their wolf state before. They’d guarded Ashforth’s grounds in wolf form during the full moon. But none had been as magnificent as Conall. He really was king of the werewolves.

At her compliment, Wolf Conall turned the side of his face that didn’t have blood on it into her breasts and nuzzled them lovingly. She laughed and pushed his face away. “Opportunist.”

The sound he made was like a wolf version of laughter, and she knew without a doubt as he shot her an amused look far more human than animal that Conall never lost who he was when he shifted. She’d always wondered about that, whether a werewolf held onto their human consciousness when they turned.

So caught in the moment, she’d forgotten about the other wolves. But she realized as Conall padded away from her, the energy around him becoming static, that the gray wolf had stopped whimpering. His pelt still rose and fell with deep breaths—he was still alive.

Conall shifted. She knew it was wrong to watch but found herself unable to look anywhere else. First his fur began to shrink, disappearing into golden skin, and then the cracking of bone sounded as his forelegs became arms. He settled onto his hind legs as the transformation moved through his body, until Conall emerged, standing, his skin flushed. He faced her, chest heaving with exertion, and she got a second look at his ripped abdomen before her attention was inevitably drawn downward.

A blush crested high on her cheeks.

Conall was aroused.

Impressively, impressively so.

Her eyes flew to his, and he gave her an unembarrassed shrug. “Pay no attention. Just a side effect of adrenaline after a fight.”

Thea nodded, trying to appear nonchalant. “Well, I learn something new every day.”

He shot her a dry look and pulled on his clothes, turning to do so, giving her the backside view instead.

She wasn’t disappointed by that at all.

The air across the courtyard changed, drawing their attention, and the gray wolf slowly transformed into a man. His groans were not ones of pleasure but of pain. He sat back, naked on his haunches, his belly wound raw and red but closed. Thea remembered Conall said werewolves healed faster in wolf form.

This was the proof.

The man glared his hatred at Conall but didn’t move. Conall grabbed his backpack and strode over to the waiting werewolf.

“Who sent you?”

The attacker didn’t speak.

“Do I need to kill you too?”

The werewolf looked at his dead companion.

“He acted dishonorably. He forfeited and then attacked when my back was turned.”

Anguish darkened the werewolf’s eyes, but he reluctantly nodded. His gaze moved to Thea. “Eirik wants you dead,” the werewolf said in a German accent. “If he wants you dead, there is no escaping that.” Out of nowhere, he pulled a silver blade and Thea went to lunge in front of Conall just