Wulfe Untamed (Feral Warriors #8)(66)

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Lyon asked evenly.

“I’ll call you if anything happens.” His head was beginning to pound, his body about to implode.

He needed Natalie Cash in his arms.

Natalie followed Wulfe out the door of Lyon’s room and the few steps to her own. What in the heck had happened? One minute she’d been watching, terrified that Wulfe would attack his friends with those deadly claws. The next thing, Wulfe was holding her, taking a broken wine bottle out of her hand, and everyone was staring at her as if she’d grown a second head.

Wulfe ushered her into her room, then closed the door and pulled her around to face him. His hands caressed her shoulders as he studied her with soft, worried eyes. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know.” Her pulse was pounding. Her hand slid up to cover her chest. “My heart’s racing.”

“You’re no longer in pain?”

“No, not at all. Thank you for that. But, Wulfe . . .” She shook her head. “We can’t let that happen again.” Her brows drew together. “What if, next time, you knock me out?”

His brows lifted, his expression turning thoughtful. “I don’t know. It’s possible that would disconnect you. We can try it.”

“Okay. Good.” The tension began to ease from her shoulders. “We have a plan.” For now. Until that didn’t work, either. And then what? She’d heard Strome as well as Wulfe had. The only way to break this connection was through the death of one of the three of them. And while it might be heroic to offer to give up her life, Wulfe would never go for that. He’d blame himself for it, hate himself for it. Besides, she liked her life, thank you very much, even as strange as it had become. No, Inir was the one who had to die. For both their sakes.

Wulfe lifted a hand and stroked her cheek. “Let me hold you.” Something in his expression crumbled for the barest second. “I need to hold you,” he said quietly.

She wasn’t the only one shaken, she realized. Sliding into his arms, she pressed her body against the hard, muscular planes of his and knew that nothing had ever felt so right. Wulfe pulled her closer still, locking his arms around her, brushing his chin against her hair on a deep, heartfelt sigh.

As her arms went around his waist, she pressed her cheek to his T-shirt. “It’s all going to be okay,” she said quietly. “It’s all going to work out.”

He kissed her hair. “Do you know something I don’t?” His voice almost teased. Almost.

“No, but it’s the only acceptable outcome.” Slowly, she pulled back and gazed up into his beautiful, beloved face. “We’re going to beat Satanan and Inir, Wulfe. We’re going to win because I know you. Your soul is too honorable, too filled with light for darkness to ever cling there for long. Satanan will never control you. You’re going to beat him.”

The look he gave her was at once filled with wonder and doubt. “I wish I could be so sure.”

“I wish you could be, too. But I’m certain. No matter what happens, you won’t hurt me. Evil won’t take you. It won’t win.”

The wonder flared in his eyes. “You’re a miracle.” Tenderness drenched his liquid gaze. His lashes swept down, his hands falling from her shoulders to her hips. Strong fingers encircled her waist, gripping her flesh, kneading her hips with what, from another man, would indicate rising passion. He pulled her closer, tight against his hips and the thick protrusion in his jeans.

“Wulfe?” She stared at him, remembering the desire she’d imagined seeing in his eyes just before he lost it.

His lashes swept up, revealing dark eyes ablaze with a wondrous heat. Her heart began to pound, her body melting in response.

“What happened?” she breathed.

His hand rose, his warm palm cupping her throat and sliding slowly downward until it rested firmly against her upper chest. His pulse, quick and unsteady, pounded so hard in that hand that she could feel it.

He wanted her. And her own body flushed with answering desire.

“You,” he breathed, sliding his hand up to her jaw. “You happened.” His head dipped, and he kissed her with all the fierce need, all the tender passion she could have dreamed of. His lips brushed hers, warm and firm, his tongue traced her lower lip. She opened for him and he dove inside, his tongue stroking hers, twining with hers, sending a fireball of heat exploding in her chest and rushing lower, a storm of need and sensation, chaos and wonder. He tasted like summer rain and winter forests, clean and fresh and wholly, wonderfully male.

One of his hands slid into her hair, the other down her back to pull her hips tight against his and she felt, again, the very massive evidence of his desire.

As her breath trembled out, she found herself smiling.

He pulled back, looking down at her with passion-drugged eyes and a gleam that made her chest ache with tenderness. “What’s so funny?”

“Not funny. Wonderful. You really do want me.”

His lips brushed her cheek, trailing down to her neck, licking, nipping, making her shiver with delightful longing. Her br**sts tingled, her knees weakening as, deep within, her body began to pulse and contract, begging to be filled.

“I want you,” he groaned against her neck. “I want you so badly . . .”

Slowly, he rose again, pulling back, his breath ragged, his gaze hot and troubled.