Night of the Tiger(30)

She moistened her lips again and, when she spoke, her words were little more than a puff of breath. “Show me.”

It took his addled brain a moment to understand what she was asking. He was naked, so he wasn’t exactly hiding anything. The tiger. She wanted to see the tiger, to know it was real.

Placing his hands on her shoulders, he gently moved her away from him. “Maybe you’d better sit down.” He had no idea what effect his changing might have on her. He knew that a part of her didn’t believe a word he was saying about who he was and the fact he was cursed. She’d been forced to accept a lot over the past few hours. She’d handled it with great courage, but a person could only take so much. Seeing her lover morph into a giant white tiger might be more than she could deal with.

“All right.” She shuffled back to the bed, keeping the damn sheet tucked around her body. He wished she’d drop it, even a little. He longed to see her firm, high breasts, her slender torso and her long, lithe legs. Even with her scars, Aimee was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

Her hair was a luxurious black, but it was shorter than any he’d ever seen on a woman. His hair was longer than hers. It should have detracted from her femininity, yet somehow it only accentuated it, highlighting her delicate features and her incredible green eyes. A lock of hair fell across her forehead, making her appear vulnerable.

She sat on the edge of the mattress and crossed her legs. The sheet parted slightly, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of her trim calves and dainty feet. He wanted to see her sleek thighs spread wide in invitation. His cock flexed in agreement.

“I’m waiting.”

He heard the impatience, the anticipation in her voice. He wished it were an invitation of another sort, a sexual one that would lead to erotic fulfillment for both of them. But her demeanor was not one of a woman open to receiving the attentions of a more-than-willing sexual partner. It was one of expectation, but of a completely different kind.

A part of him was afraid to change into his tiger. After being held in that form for so long, he was enjoying being a man again. What if he couldn’t change back?

No, he wouldn’t accept that. He was a warrior and the tiger was part of him. He needed to embrace his entire self if he had even the smallest chance of coming out of this mess alive.

“Roric?” The concern in her voice was his undoing. Was he a warrior or was he a coward?

He reached deep inside himself and found his tiger waiting patiently. The creature roared and jumped forward, taking control and starting the change. The beast was impatient to be in his natural form. The tiger had been as trapped as the man, frozen and unable to move for five thousand years.

The metamorphosis was upon him now. Roric’s fingers curled, the tips of his fingernails elongating into lethally sharp claws. His face changed, forehead flattening, jaw elongating and teeth sharpening.

Aimee gasped and jerked her legs up onto the bed. She clutched the sheet tight to her chin. He wondered if she thought that would save her. He wasn’t a monster hiding under the bed. He was an ancient warrior of the Lady of the Beasts—a legendary fighter of renown, a killer. There was nothing she could do to stop him if he chose to attack.

He fell forward, his hands morphing into giant paws before they hit the ground. Muscles rippled and elongated. He arched his spine, feeling the bones crack and reform as they settled into their new shape. Hair grew from beneath his skin, covering his body in thick fur.

He threw back his head and roared. The glass in the window rattled. Energy rushed through his veins. By changing, he’d somehow managed to tap into some of his power. Being released from the carousel hadn’t automatically given him back all his strength. But his abilities were growing, changing with each minute he was free.

A low, frightened sound emerged from the bed. Aimee had her legs pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. Her face was pale, her green eyes huge. He padded toward her, feeling the wooden floor beneath the pads of his paws. It felt good to move as the beast. Powerful. Muscles flexed beneath his flesh as he stalked toward her.

He came to an abrupt halt when the acrid smell of fear surrounded him. It burned his nostrils, sharp and bitter. But beneath it was the unmistakable perfume of her arousal, thick and rich. She still carried his scent on her skin from when they’d had sex. His heavier, muskier smell overlaid her lighter, more feminine one. The tiger chuffed with pleasure. Possessiveness, raw and overwhelming, hit him in the face.

Aimee was his.

He shook his head and his whiskers twitched, but he could not get her intoxicating scent out of his head. The logical man inside the beast knew that such an attachment wasn’t possible. She was mortal. He was immortal. He was a shapeshifter. She was human.