Page 8 of Angel's Conquest

He took a deep breath, tried to still his racing mind, and focused on what he needed to. Black and white biology first. Heat he could do, and she needed a metric ton of the stuff in short order or he’d never get to the question portion of the show.

Bronze squatted down in front of her and rested her back against the tree when she began to lilt to the side. “Stay here. I’ll get you warm in a bit, but I need to get something first. Are you able to sit upright for a moment?”

Her head bobbed heavily on her slim neck. The movement didn’t exactly inspire confidence and was a far cry from the ambushing power she’d exhibited earlier, but what choice did he have? Clearly, whatever reserved energy that had surged to the surface moments before had been quickly spent, and he’d have to make do with the leftovers.

“Okay. Yeah, that’s it,” he whispered softly, encouraging her despite his reservations. “Just”—he looked around for something she could use for protection, then settled on his vest—“here, take my dirk. Pointy end goes into anyone who’s not me. No exceptions. I need two minutes tops, and I’ll be able to hear anyone who gets within a mile of you before then.”

The woman nodded again and gripped the hilt, though she hardly had the strength to keep the blade pointed anywhere but at her feet.

Right. Perfect. Exactly who he should give a weapon to.

Fuck.

Before Bronze could grapple with the urge to grab her and fly her out of there or, at the very least, fix her damn grip on the weapon, he bolted toward the river’s edge and found her cape. The thing was a sodden mess and was giving off more of a Salem witch hunt fashion sense than anything sold in those fancy Aurora boutiques, but like he was one to judge? She was cold, nearly losing heat faster than he had time to replenish it, and with the charmers’ ability to fucking portal anywhere, he had to make this quick.

Despite the embankment blocking her view from him, he still turned his back to her direction before he let his power free. A few quick pulses of his celestial fire’s energy were all it took for the garment to dry completely. He was already halfway up the rocky hill when what he saw nearly made him wipe out on a patch of damp leaves not twenty feet in front of her.

The woman—fuck, did he even know her name?—was exactly as he left her, propped against the crumbling bark of a tree, looking like death warmed over.

Except death, as far as he knew, didn’t make a habit of licking its fingers before swiping them across bloody head wounds.

Bronze crested the rest of the hill and continued toward her but slowed way the hell down as what he was seeing became clearer. Even in the dim moonlight, he could make out the swipe of her pink tongue as she brought it daintily across the pads of her index and middle fingers. After two licks, she lifted her hand to the cut at her hairline. She did it once, twice, then again, all the while keeping her eyes closed, as if she were concentrating on something wholly more important than what simple vision could detect. The deep grooves between her brows still hadn’t lessened and were clearly working overtime on something that didn’t concern him. But then she took one more moistened swipe at her forehead and?—

“Holy shit,” he whispered, sharpening his celestial senses to make sure he was actually seeing what he was seeing.

Faster than it had any right to move, the skin along her hairline stitched together starting from where the gash began at her ear. Another brush of her damp fingers and the two inches of raw flesh above her left eyebrow turned the pale pink of a fresh scar. One more sweep and all the blood was gone. A final pat at her brow was the last ministration before even the deepest part of the laceration in the center of her forehead right above her nose melded together into a seamless ivory canvas.

The woman had yet to open her eyes. She just rested her hand on her brow and hung her head forward as though she was fighting off the migraine to end all migraines. As though she hadn’t just sewn her skin together with literal spit and determination.

It wasn’t until she finally lowered her hand that many of the facts floating around Bronze’s orbit decided to land in congruous shapes his brain could finally process.

With stark unease, he realized this hadn’t been the first time he’d seen a creature heal in such a way. He’d known it to be done several times. Felines came to mind first because of their fastidious nature, but it was the canine imagery that stayed locked in good and tight inside his brain. Dogs, wolves, didn’t they all have some sort of antiseptic properties in their paw pads? Wasn’t that how they aided in healing themselves when they got nicked?

Bronze sharpened his celestial senses even further and took more of the woman in than just what he had previously focused on to assess for injuries. The white hair, the tawny-brown eyes . . . not a usual color combination for human mortals, especially not for those still in their youth. It was a much more sympathetic color scheme for an animal, specifically one adapted to polar climates or one uniquely hued young out of a litter. Not entirely uncommon.

Again, for animals.

Bronze’s palms turned sweaty, and he had to throw her garment over his shoulder lest he inadvertently scorch the thing. He rubbed at a spot in the center of his chest where a tightening pressure had begun to take hold.

Exhaustion was very close to claiming its due from both of them. But as the woman’s head fell to the side at a sharp angle and the curtain of her damp hair draped across her face in heavy clumps, other images smacked him across the face.

When she’d first seen him after regaining consciousness, she didn’t speak, not at first, but her neck had tilted to the side in the same jarring manner. Not slow and assessing, but quick and cunningly, like a wolf might if it only had mere moments to assess its situation before making a move.

Then the freight train of reality barreled toward Bronze, and he hadn’t even realized he’d stepped onto the tracks.

Her surges of strength, her eyes looking to the moon for guidance and awareness . . .

“By the mages . . .”

She wasn’t a human. She was a lycan.

Chapter 5

Never in her entire life had Clara endured something so equally demeaning and exhilarating as being blindfolded. Perhaps it also had something to do with the surprising warmth of the human holding her throughout their short journey, or the agonizingly unusual slowness with which her body tried to heal itself, but one thing was for certain: no amount of secret archival studying or silently purchased missives from merchants could have prepared her for where she’d landed.

And landed she had.

Her human escort hadn’t said much on the brief excursion he’d insisted she accompany him on, which only added to the myriad of worries stacking up inside her. After he returned from fetching her cloak, which had somehow been dried out and warmed enough to take the edge off her shivering, an equally chilling silence had fallen between them. And wasn’t that the strangest thing? The male was, after all, merely a stranger, and, well, she had thrown herself at him like a rabid soaked animal spouting what she was sure he thought of as all sorts of nonsense, but for the brief moments he’d spoken to her after she awoke, he had been . . . kind.