TAVRIC
Even in her frighteningly weak state, the princess looks unbearably cute—that small frown sliding over her expression, lips puckered in a faint, weary pout that she has no idea she's making.
She says nothing as I hook my arms beneath her and lift her from the dirty alley floor. She makes no sound of protest. Instead, she adjusts herself against my chest with the unconscious trust of someone who has decided, somewhere beneath the fog of the toxins, that she is safe.
She turns her nose into my shirt.
She sniffs.
She purrs.
She closes her eyes and goes still.
Fuck.
Ryker, my wolf, practically ignites in the back of my mind—a low, primal hum of satisfaction that borders on insufferable. He has been waiting for this. For her. And he is not subtle about it.
"Mine," he snarls, with every step I take toward the car.
I round the bend where we stashed the vehicle, already bracing for what awaits me.
