Darkest Wolf(4)

Yes, if you can manage to not get killed.

He opened the car door and slipped inside, keys in hand. The witch stared at him through hooded eyes. He didn’t like her quietness, not one bit. Sniffing the air, he tried to get a sense of what her emotions were based on her smell. Most of his brothers couldn’t decipher as well as he could. It had been his gift—and burden—since childhood. Having a really sensitive nose made it impossible to do certain things. Before he’d learned to control it, the faintest aromas could make him physically ill. If something was about to go bad in the refrigerator, he might be sick for days.

The other side of his scent issues was he could easily discern things other wolf-shifters could not: like the moods of those around him. Right now, his orange-scented mate smelled … perturbed. She wasn’t really angry nor was she confused. The witch radiated a feeling somewhere in between.

“If I tell you my name, will you let me go?”

“No.” He didn’t like her feeling any anger at all. In her position, he might too be annoyed. Still, something inside of him he didn’t want to particularly examine churned at the thought she had displeasure with him.

“I didn’t think so.” She sank down in her seat. “I don’t know why I’m surprised I’m being kidnapped by a psychotic witch-killing wolf. These sorts of things happen to me all the time.”

Really? He started the car and pulled it into traffic, watching where he went to make sure he did so in a safe manner. He wouldn’t risk her by being careless. “It does?”

“Sure. I’m cursed, after all, which doesn’t happen if you have great luck.”

“You’re cursed?” He nearly stuttered on the word. Rex knew something about curses. They’d all lived with one for thirty years until Ashlee had come and the pack had thrown it out. Most of the pack had died because of the blasted thing. “But you’re a witch.”

She shook her head. “Look, Kane.”

He really wished she wouldn’t use his last name to address him. It reminded him too much of his father. But he had no desire to interrupt her when she talked. Her voice had a lyrical, soothing quality he wanted to listen to for a while.

“I wasn’t born this ugly. In my normal form I’m not gorgeous, but I’m not grotesque either. People can look at me without wincing. I appreciate you’ve chosen not to flinch or look away. You’re the second wolf today to do so, which is, actually, incredibly kind considering what you all are. But don’t you want to abduct a better-looking person?

Surely, there can’t be much fun in this.”

Rex felt dumbfounded. He’d always prided himself on being a smart man. But he couldn’t make head or tails of what she’d just said to him. “Let me see if I can understand what you are saying.”

She shifted in her seat, and he wished he could trust her so he could untie her wrists.

“Okay.”

“People can’t look at you without flinching?”

“Correct.” She motioned to her face. “Can you blame them?” He ignored her question. “Why is this?”

“Because of the sores, the puss, the misshapen nose, the way my eyes are narrowed, my stringy hair and the other ways in which I now resemble a stereotypical crone.” She swung her head around to look out the window into the sunset. “And by the way, I take it back. You’re an asshole for making me list all the things wrong with me when you can see them perfectly for yourself.”

“Witch, I cannot see any of what you described. Do you need what the humans call a psychiatrist? Are you unwell?” He sniffed at the air. She didn’t smell of mental illness.

Her head turned around, the eyes he could now see had as much gray in them as they did blue stared back at him. “Are you serious or just playing some kind of a game?

Because I know the wolf earlier could see how horrendous I looked.”

“You are of petite stature. Your breasts are round and look like they would fill up my hands.” She sucked in her breath as he said his words but he wasn’t done. “You have brownish-blondish hair. I will call it whatever color you would like me to call it. Your eyes are … beautiful. Blue, gray. Your nose is not askew. By contrast, I would call it pert. Your chin is stubborn. All in all, if you were not a witch, I would call you a pixie.” She was silent for two seconds before tears slid down her face. Silent, she did not wipe them away. Neither did she slip into hysterics. “I used to look as you described me.”

“It’s how you look to me.”

“How?” She shook her head.