Page 36 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

“No, I don’t know why he did that, but I can assure you, I will find out.”

“He said something about his daughter?”

Aidan sighed. “Of course. Orla has been missing.”

“I haven’t abducted anyone.”

“Of course you haven’t.”

Why was he still standing there, lawn shirt parted to reveal his chest and his dark-blue tattoo, and near enough that she could smell sweet amber and frankincense of his hair wash? He smelled like the forest. She wanted to bury her nose in his throat, make a mark of her own.

Not now, Sorcha. Not ever.

Aidan frowned. “Are you frightened of me?”

Her gaze flew to his. “No!” She sounded a little insulted, even to her own ears. She did not frighten easily.

“You’re not scared of the wolves? Even after today?”

She huffed out a sigh. “No,” she repeated. Why did he have to smell so good? “Honestly.”

“It’s a fair question.”

“It’s a ridiculous question.”

“Why? You were abducted,” he reminded her, punctuating the last word with a snarl.

“Not by you. I’ve never met a more honorable man. A good man.”

“I am trying to figure out if that is an insult or not,” he said wryly, eyes still holding hers without mercy. The soft lilt of a voice, the hint of a growl, the primal eyes—he was lethal.

“It’s not an insult,” she said. “And, by the way, I sleep two doors away from a vampire, and a Minotaur is in charge of my kitchen. And I feed a unicorn on a daily basis. A little wolf is hardly enough to bother me.” Not when there were ogres and fighting pits. Did Aidan really think she would for one moment fear he would hurt her? Absurd.

“And where were they when you were taken?” he asked quietly.

“Busy.” Thank the stars. “And anyway, it’s not the wolves you have to watch out for. It’s the teacup poodles every dowager in Haven seems to drag about on a diamond leash.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that.”

“So you see—”

Aidan snarled again, and Sorcha startled. She froze at his predatory stillness, the primal way a sharp, piercing intensity seized him.

“Aidan?”

Stepping away from Sorcha was physically painful.

Which made it all the more necessary.

For so many reasons. Good reasons. Reasons that were difficult to grasp when light touched the column of her neck, the scatter of freckles. The suggestion of a pout on her wide mouth. He just knew that she would taste like raspberries. Again. Still. Just as she had that night among the roses.

The fact that he was not touching her now was a crime.

The fact that she was not touching him was a fucking travesty.

Aidan knew how to excavate a spell bottle from a three-thousand-year-old ziggurat without angering any guardian spirits. He knew how to reclaim a family heirloom from a taciturn ghost, how to track a hex, undo a love potion. He knew the protocol for exhibiting curses, for disarming ancient wards, for dealing with the endless bureaucracy of the governing body of the museum.

But he did not, even after years of being a wolf, know the protocol for putting his teeth to a lady’s throat.