Her Viking Wolves(23)

“Change back,” I plead with him. “You’ve got to go wolf now so you can heal.”

This is probably the stupidest thing I could have said because if he could change into wolf form, he would have already done so. And let’s face it, considering he comes from a time and place where Old Norse is the primary language, the odds of him understanding me aren’t great.

Still, I continue talking to him, holding his hand tight and smoothing down his red dreadlocks with my other hand. Why? Because it feels like I have to do something. Anything to help him.

“It’s all right,” I whisper. “Shhh. It’s going to be all right. Please, calm down, please.”

He slaps a large hand over the back of mine, pressing it against the side of his face and rubbing one large cheek into it.

The lost tranquilizer syringe all but forgotten, I give him what I think he needs, continuing to whisper nonsense reassurances like, “It will be all right. I know it hurts.” And, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

But the soothing seems to be working. He stops bellowing and starts panting. Quick expulsions of breath between clenched teeth.

“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I’m going to go get the doctor. He’ll be able to give you something for the pain…”

But when I try to move away, he grabs my arm and pulls. Before I know what’s happening, I’m tumbling over, working hard to avoid his un-bandaged arrow wound as I reach out to catch myself.

That’s how I come to find myself on top of him. One hand braced above his injured shoulder, and one hand still wrapped tight inside his, my body flush against his longer one. He’s leaning back on the table now but doesn’t appear to notice his open wound.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, totally mortified.

However, when I try to get off, his arm wraps around my waist, and he shakes his head at me. Like he doesn’t want me to go.

And despite the situation, I find my usually dormant wolf sitting up again. Crooking her head inside of me, like Hey-hey now!#p#分页标题#e#

He’s in pain, I admonish my wolf. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

And I try to explain to Olafr as best I can, “Must get, uh, medicine man. Doctor. Try to help you.” Dear God, I sound like I’m reading from some corny 1950s Lone Ranger script.

Then he shocks the hell out of me by saying, “No…doctor…” in the same thick accent from before. “You. Want you.”

So he speaks English! At least a little—but then I remember where I am, on top of a seriously wounded wolf, and shake my head.

“But I don’t have any medicine.”

“You,” he says, clumsily stroking my hair. Is he…?

Yes, he is, I realize with a start. He’s petting me, just like I petted him earlier.

Okay. Um, yeah.

I awkwardly grab hold of his wrist to stop him.

“You need the doctor,” I repeat.

And again he shakes his head, more slowly this time, holding my gaze. “You,” he repeats. The word thick. And final. “Need you.”

Then I feel something else on the table with us, a large presence swelling to life in the general vicinity of my solar plexus. And when I look back into his gray eyes, they’re no longer glowing, but clouded with the same primal lust I’ve seen on the grooms during my pack’s time-honored “Fuck and Burn” ritual.

Which should repulse me. I hate that ritual. It’s one of the many reasons I asked Clyde to talk to my father in order make sure it wouldn’t happen at my wedding. But my body doesn’t respond to the animal lust in his eyes like it’s supposed to, which is crazy, because she-wolves don’t exactly have a lot of sexual feeling going on before they go into their first heat. That’s why it’s illegal for males to have sex with us before our first heat. Our bodies just aren’t ready to go there. The first heat lets the first and most likely only male we will ever mate with know when we’re ready to receive him.

But just as his body doesn’t seem capable of shifting back to wolf form, my body doesn’t seem capable of playing by the rules. My breasts grow heavier, and all of a sudden I’m feeling a number of parts stirring in ways they never have before.

And for a wolf-bound shifter, no less.

Seriously ashamed of myself, I struggle to get up. For real this time. “Ok, look. You need a doctor—”

He flips both of us over—I have no idea how, given his injury. But he does, and the next thing I know, I’m looking up at him rather than down.

He sniffs at me. First burying his face in my loose yarn locs, then I feel his long nose at my neck, breathing me in as if he’s trying to memorize my scent. Like a dog.