War of Hearts(60)

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 as the wolf drew the blade across his own throat.

She grabbed Conall’s arm, her grip probably bruising as she stared in shock at the dying wolf.

After a few seconds, Conall drew her hand from his arm and curled his own around it. He drew her into side. “Eirik?”

Thea shook her head. “I’ve no idea. The Blackwoods?”

Conall exhaled slowly, wearily. “I dinnae think so.”

Realizing there might be more than one group after her, Thea stared up at Conall who was glaring at the dead wolf in thought. If he couldn’t protect Thea, get her back to Scotland before someone else got to her, Callie would die. But somewhere deep down, Thea knew she’d begun to hope that Conall cared about protecting Thea because of Thea.

Something had changed between them, gradually, compelling them forward to a new state of understanding, one that finally sank its teeth into Thea as she watched Conall fight to the death to protect her.

Like he knew she had been fighting for too long.

Like he knew just once someone should care enough to fight for her.

Thea so wanted to believe that.

Only days ago, she would have told herself she was ridiculous to even contemplate trusting another being with her life. But she was so tired.

So tired of being alone.

Of being without faith.

The promise she made to Amanda floated across her mind.

“Iron,” she blurted out.

Conall frowned down at her. “What, lass?”

She licked her dry lips and then unconsciously squeezed the hand holding tight to hers. “My weakness, Conall. The thing Ashforth lined the walls with, the metal of the cat-o’-nine-tails. Pure iron. I’m allergic to pure iron.”

He was disturbingly silent for what felt like forever. And then he turned into her. “You trust me a little then, Thea?”

Although it was difficult, she nodded.