Page 72 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

“No.” That flat, dispassionate voice again. He crossed those strong, corded arms with their blue spirals. It was strange to be distracted by a man’s wrists.

But here she was. Eating blackberries after being besieged by nightmares and being distracted by a man’s hands.

It was strange to be distracted by blackberries.

Aidan had never thought one way or another about blackberries before.

He was thinking about them now. With some enthusiasm, it had to be said.

How could he not? Sorcha stood so near, the wind in her hair, her nimble fingers plucking berries and slipping them between her lips.

It was spectacularly difficult to think about anything else.

He kept track of the birds circling, of the wolf’s ear pricking inside his skull, listening for danger. Of the lingering lemon-balm perfume of baneful magic. Of anything that might compromise Sorcha’s safety.

And he was thinking about her lips, about the gleam of blackberry juice when her tongue darted out to catch a stray droplet. About the taste of her, the sounds of her pleasure in his ears. A soft growl rumbled through his chest. She was delighted at the evidence of his wolf; he could hear it in her heartbeat. But he only felt concern. His wolf could be unpredictable. It was like that sometimes, when you were not born to the Pack. She’d said she was not scared of him, and he believed her. But he also knew things about himself that she did not.

Things the Nightmare knew.

And he knew enough about her to know she would go charging into danger at every opportunity.

Had Freya been anyone else, been capable of less, he would have challenged her for the right to Sorcha’s secret. The Red Cloak.

Every time he thought of it, a shiver scraped down his spine. The way the ogre had advanced on her. The way the spectators had cheered, thirsty for blood and broken bones.

The way she had marched in here alone.

And then set the stables on fire.

Fuck.

This woman.

And then the lightning bird, her gasps as the Nightmare circled, draining her.

“Are you trying to think up lies to tell me?” Sorcha demanded.

She never asked where she could demand. Never suggested where she could just do it herself. Fuck, he loved that about her.

“Aidan? You’ve gone a bit pale.”

“I’m fine.”

She wiped her berry-stained fingers on her dress, already streaked with dirt. “Don’t bother lying to me, Coventry. You have a tell.”

He couldn’t help a smile. He knew for a fact he did not have a tell. He had spent long, hard hours making sure of it. Sweated blood over it. “Do I?”

“Aye,” she said, mimicking his accent. Atrociously. It was adorable. “Spill your secrets or I’ll lock you in the stall with Nimue.”

He gave an exaggerated shudder. Her green eyes gleamed with humor and mischief. It amazed him that she had been through an abduction, a curse breaking, and a Nightmare in the last few days alone, and her fire was not dimmed. If anything, having another chance to take on the Collector seemed to revitalize her. She was not a witch to be wrapped up in down feathers. He imagined that any suitor who offered her a diamond would be summarily dismissed and that diamond sold to buy oats and raw entrails for her beasties.

Not that there would be any suitors for some time.

Not when she was betrothed to him.

He tried to fight the swell of smug satisfaction. His wolf did not try at all.

“Aidan! Honestly, have you gone daft? That won’t save you either, you know.”