Page 25 of Angel's Conquest
And what he feared he could no longer turn back from.
The shift to her mortal form was much harder that time, owing, no doubt, to how long she’d gone placating her wolf into remaining so. But every creature had its limits, and as she’d caught up to Bronze and witnessed those coyotes sink their teeth into his no-longer-metallic flesh, her she-wolf had had enough.
As grateful as Clara was to her wolf, the need to speak and inspect Bronze’s injuries currently outweighed the need to let the creature roam free.
Sorry, girl, but he needs us.
Clara lay hunched on the ground in the manner in which her wolf had left her, belly down, knees tucked beneath her, arms folded at the elbows and forearms extended toward Bronze. Her eyes barely had time to focus before his legs, bloody and torn, appeared before her. He squatted, and she got a precursory eyeful of the damage, but he was careful to keep the pain from registering on his soil-smudged face.
A face that had been solid metal a few short moments ago.
“Let me see. How bad is it?” Clara pushed off the ground in a hurry, then slowed when his gaze dropped to her exposed breasts.
Crap. She’d never shifted in front of males before, and for this very reason. While nudity was a natural inevitability of lycanthropic heritage, that did not automatically equate with a lack of modesty.
Or, for that matter, how males from outside her race might view her body.
“A moment, please,” she pleaded when he didn’t move. Clara searched around frantically for her traveling cloak, which she had managed to throw off and save, along with the relic, before her wolf shifted. The rest of her clothes were most likely tattered shreds, unfortunately, but there was nothing to be done about it.
When she didn’t immediately see her garment and Bronze still hadn’t moved, a new worry bloomed within her chest. In this part of the forest, following that commotion, they were exposed, and she more so. They were not far from her father’s lands, from other lycans who could stumble upon them and surmise a different sort of picture from what had actually happened.
Any onlookers would simply see a bloodied male hovering above a naked lycan princess. In the forest. Alone.
All it would take was for one of her father’s guards to patrol just a hair outside their jurisdiction, or a merchant firmly in the king’s pockets to see what they didn’t understand and report on what would earn them the most financial loyalty and security.
It would all be over before it started. The games. The mating arrangement. Any plans for a future monarchy that wasn’t centered around tyrannical injustice.
All because she had just shifted to save a male who, according to the wrong potential bystander, would possibly seek to ruin her and, by extension, her father.
“Bronze. Please. You need to listen to me. I must rise and?—”
With the precision of a matador but none of the showmanship and a fair bit more grunting, Bronze shook out her cloak from behind his back and let the heavy fabric settle over her body. Once she was fully covered, he lifted her hair through the collar, fanned it out over her shoulders, and replaced the relic around her neck.
But his touch didn’t stop there. Even after she was fully concealed, his fingers lingered on the curve of her shoulder before brushing the tips of her hair and traveling farther down until he’d caressed every vertebrae along her spine.
The stroke was no more than fingertips on fabric, but she felt it everywhere. Her skin tightened in response to her hammering heart, and when she risked a glance at the spot on his chest where his own organ beat, the similar rise and fall of his body matched hers.
Both were breathing rapidly. Both were seemingly struggling for more.
“I have a rule,” he said, breaking the spell and assisting her to her feet while she did the same for him.
“Inform me later. Right now, we’re exposed and too close to my father’s lands for anonymity. Besides, you’re injured.” Oh God, and was he ever. The most egregious of the wounds was the bite on his calf, where angry red flesh hung open, revealing mangled muscle that would need far more than simple stitching to heal. How he was even putting weight on the leg, let alone standing upright, was either a testament to his warrior’s mettle or the sheer arrogance of his sex.
Likely both.
“My rule is never let them run.”
“Why not?”
“Because running away is so much more enjoyable when you have someone to do it with, whether it’s chasing or coercing. Why let the coyote have all the fun?”
Clara blinked away the absurdity of his words and shook her head in disbelief. “You’re insane. Do you know that?” She gripped the edge of her cloak and was about to rip it off to cover his wound—or his mouth, she wasn’t sure which one yet—when his hands wrapped around hers, making her drop the hem.
“You’d be so much fun to run with, princess. Next time, let’s plan it a little bit better, though. There are only so many more surprises like you a male like me can handle.”
If she were any other female, she’d have known how to handle such a remark. She’d have the knowledge, experience, even the skilled repartee to fling back as a rejoinder. And if he were any other male, he’d be stoically kind to the point of animatronic and humor her for the sake of her bloodline.
But she was not any other female, and he was not any other male.