told you otherwise, but trust me, it’s not a good idea to go around calling women ‘bitches.’”
His hand felt cold and empty without hers. He wanted, needed to feel more. To explore the delicate lines of her wrist, the strong curves of her arm…to run his fingers through her silky, astonishingly red hair…
“Hey.” The Bitch snapped her fingers at him, the sharp gesture belied by the concern in her eyes. “You still with me, Fenrir? You’re looking a little slack-jawed.”
With an effort, he wrenched his mind off the mesmerizing thought of running his fingertips over every inch of her body. “Sorry. Distracted. The Bitch is more enticing than…than…” He groped for a suitable comparison. “A squirrel.”
The Bitch stared at him.
Oh no. Had he angered her? On second thought, his attempt at a compliment had fallen far short. No wonder she was offended.
He hastened to correct himself. “Than many squirrels.”
The Bitch gazed at him for a moment longer. Then she rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. “Thank you. I think. And we really, really need to have a long talk about cultural-specific idioms at some point. But setting that aside for now—you have to stop calling women bitches, okay? It’s not polite.”
“But would not call women bitches,” he said, perplexed. “Only bitches. Women are women. Bitches are bitches.”
She tilted her head to one side. “From the way you say that, I’m pretty sure you have a very different definition of that word than most people. Okay, I’ll bite. What makes someone a bitch?”
It was so obvious, he struggled to put it into words. It was like trying to explain pack, or hunger, or love. You just knew such things, deep in the body, in blood and bone.
“Bitch is wolf,” he said slowly, feeling his way from word to word. “Does not matter what shape bitch is on outside, is wolf where it counts. Knows that. Shows her teeth. Stands firm. Defends what is hers.”
The Bitch’s expressive eyebrows lifted. “So when you say bitch, you mean a strong woman?”
He wrinkled his lip in frustration, wanting to make her understand. “No. Everyone weak sometimes. Bitches no different. Bitch can be frightened, bitch can be frail, bitch can be hurt. But bitch is always herself, at heart. Always. Others say to her, No, no, not be self, be what we want. But bitch will not bow head to be collared and leashed. Is not pet, shaped to serve another’s will. Is not tame. That is what makes a bitch.”
She contemplated him for a long, long moment, expression thoughtful. Then she broke into a sudden, brilliant grin that made his heart move sideways.
“Okay,” she said. “That just made your nickname for me much more palatable. But much as I appreciate the sentiment, you can’t keep calling me The Bitch. Other people might, uh, misunderstand.”
“Don’t care what other people think. Only The Bitch.”
Her lips pursed a little. “In that case, prove that you care what I think. I need you to call me Darcy, okay?”
She’d told him straight-out what she wanted. He had to try.
“D-d-d-aaaar-seee,” he mumbled, stumbling over the nonsense syllables. It wasn’t quite right. He swiped his tongue over his jaws—at least, as best he could—and made another attempt. “D-aaarcy. Darcy?”
She smiled. “Good job. And try not to call other women bitches to their faces, okay? Most of them aren’t likely to ask for a lesson in comparative linguistics, and I’d hate to see you get kicked in the balls.”
That particular part of his body did seem rather more vulnerable in this form. Were two-legs male organs meant to be so exposed?
He would have to ask The Bitch—no, Darcy, he reminded himself—later. Right now, he took her warning to heart. As a wolf, only his pack mates had been able to hear him in their head. They hadn’t taken offense to being called bitches, but perhaps other two-legs would be different.
“Will try to remember. But…no matter what sounds come out of mouth, Darcy is still The Bitch. Will always be The Bitch.” He tapped his head, then his heart. “In here.”
Darcy’s grin flashed again. “I’m flattered. So, Fenrir. You want to tell me how you ended up buck-naked in the middle of nowhere with a tranquilizer dart sticking out of your neck?”
“Yes.” He took a deep breath. “Want to tell you everything.”
Chapter 5
Darcy waited, expectant.
Fenrir just sat there. His face didn’t change—she’d come to realize that he simply wasn’t very expressive—but she had a sense of gathering frustration.
“Well?” she prompted.
Fenrir looked down, his huge