unwilling to not find my own chosen? Drek has always felt strongly that his role as prince requires him to lead by example. Strong leadership through acts are more powerful than words. Every time.
He will retrieve the sacred chosen— his chosen—and work out his internal struggles from there. Her safety is paramount.
Bowen yips, and Drek turns toward where his large snout points.
Drek knows he cannot truly frown in this form, but he does frown.
They've come to an open glade. A large late-nineteenth-century manse rises from a knoll like a jewel of architecture. To the northerly position sits a huge red barn, though Drek doubts livestock have graced the inside of the structure in a long time, if ever. It does not scent of animals in the last fifty years.
In human form, Drek would have laughed at the expression Bowen's wolf gives. But humor is in short supply. Bowen swings his massive face toward the structures and gives a soft yip. His eyes rotate so quickly, they're spinning coins of molten silver. His coat is gray, like Drek's, but Drek retains the inky tips of royalty.
The two move cautiously closer.
They've entered a loud ruckus—the same one he'd heard some miles back, before they changed. Drek scents Bowen's intent, and with a snuffle of acquiescence, they trot with well-trained unity, seamlessly parting and running in mirrored semi-circles around where a horned one lies writhing in the dirt.
Another is beside him.
An Alpha.
Drek scents deeply of him, smelling many things, but not the scent he most wishes for. It's both a disappointment and a relief. It would not end well for this Alpha if he had smelled of Tahlia.
The fragrance that rises most quickly is the foreign Alpha's injury, but underneath that, the certain stirrings of insanity lurk like rancid liquid from garbage gone bad.
Bowen gives Drek uneasy eyes from across the yard, where he is positioned in the shadow of the barn. Insanity is a real problem with older Alpha's. There is usually a catalyst for the origin, but once it begins, it can spiral into true lunacy.
Their spinning orbs regard each other.
What has happened here? They seem to silently ask each other.
The demonic holds his cock in an attempt to stem the flow of inky blood that pours forth.
Drek's tongue hangs from his mouth. The injury is fitting for one of that kind. His keen eyes shift to the Were on the ground, intestines littering the sparse gravel driveway.
Deep grooves speak of a large vehicle leaving in haste—recently, by the scent.
The smell of injury, death, and fear permeate the area. And Tahlia's scent is mingled throughout.
Someone will answer for this.
Drek lowers his head, growling softly. The demonic and Were raise their heads, spotting him. They do not see Bowen.
Drek leaps, closing the distance.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Julia
Julia believes that fear about her first time—anxiety over the unknown—would otherwise have been present.
But with Scott, it's not.
The soul-meld is a drug. Feelings of ease coat her body in languid calmness, and Julia submits to the ocean of instinct that permeates every cell of her body.
Scott lies beside her, trailing his fingers lightly over the slope of her naked side. His fingertips hesitate where her waist narrows to a valley, then he moves on, his fingers barely skating the hill of her hip.
His fingers spread on the bone, warming her to the core.
“Do you feel forced?” Scott asks softly, his normal intensity dialed down.
“No,” she replies quietly, looking away. Her hair sweeps forward, partially blocking her view.
Scott tucks the wayward strands behind her ear, tilting her face to his with a finger. “Don't, Julia.”
Her eyes move back to his. She studies the deep-chocolate irises. Steady, commanding, they are filled with desire.
“Don't what?” she whispers, but she knows. She can feel it through their connection, grown taunt with the coming event—the solidification of what they were always meant to
He will retrieve the sacred chosen— his chosen—and work out his internal struggles from there. Her safety is paramount.
Bowen yips, and Drek turns toward where his large snout points.
Drek knows he cannot truly frown in this form, but he does frown.
They've come to an open glade. A large late-nineteenth-century manse rises from a knoll like a jewel of architecture. To the northerly position sits a huge red barn, though Drek doubts livestock have graced the inside of the structure in a long time, if ever. It does not scent of animals in the last fifty years.
In human form, Drek would have laughed at the expression Bowen's wolf gives. But humor is in short supply. Bowen swings his massive face toward the structures and gives a soft yip. His eyes rotate so quickly, they're spinning coins of molten silver. His coat is gray, like Drek's, but Drek retains the inky tips of royalty.
The two move cautiously closer.
They've entered a loud ruckus—the same one he'd heard some miles back, before they changed. Drek scents Bowen's intent, and with a snuffle of acquiescence, they trot with well-trained unity, seamlessly parting and running in mirrored semi-circles around where a horned one lies writhing in the dirt.
Another is beside him.
An Alpha.
Drek scents deeply of him, smelling many things, but not the scent he most wishes for. It's both a disappointment and a relief. It would not end well for this Alpha if he had smelled of Tahlia.
The fragrance that rises most quickly is the foreign Alpha's injury, but underneath that, the certain stirrings of insanity lurk like rancid liquid from garbage gone bad.
Bowen gives Drek uneasy eyes from across the yard, where he is positioned in the shadow of the barn. Insanity is a real problem with older Alpha's. There is usually a catalyst for the origin, but once it begins, it can spiral into true lunacy.
Their spinning orbs regard each other.
What has happened here? They seem to silently ask each other.
The demonic holds his cock in an attempt to stem the flow of inky blood that pours forth.
Drek's tongue hangs from his mouth. The injury is fitting for one of that kind. His keen eyes shift to the Were on the ground, intestines littering the sparse gravel driveway.
Deep grooves speak of a large vehicle leaving in haste—recently, by the scent.
The smell of injury, death, and fear permeate the area. And Tahlia's scent is mingled throughout.
Someone will answer for this.
Drek lowers his head, growling softly. The demonic and Were raise their heads, spotting him. They do not see Bowen.
Drek leaps, closing the distance.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Julia
Julia believes that fear about her first time—anxiety over the unknown—would otherwise have been present.
But with Scott, it's not.
The soul-meld is a drug. Feelings of ease coat her body in languid calmness, and Julia submits to the ocean of instinct that permeates every cell of her body.
Scott lies beside her, trailing his fingers lightly over the slope of her naked side. His fingertips hesitate where her waist narrows to a valley, then he moves on, his fingers barely skating the hill of her hip.
His fingers spread on the bone, warming her to the core.
“Do you feel forced?” Scott asks softly, his normal intensity dialed down.
“No,” she replies quietly, looking away. Her hair sweeps forward, partially blocking her view.
Scott tucks the wayward strands behind her ear, tilting her face to his with a finger. “Don't, Julia.”
Her eyes move back to his. She studies the deep-chocolate irises. Steady, commanding, they are filled with desire.
“Don't what?” she whispers, but she knows. She can feel it through their connection, grown taunt with the coming event—the solidification of what they were always meant to
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