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He turned on his heel. “It won’t let you out? Now?”
“Now or before.” She rolled her eyes. “You think they shoved me in here and I said: great, I live here now. Let’s not try to open the door and flee the poisonous werewolf’s house.”
“It lets me out when I’m human.”
Why would he need a ward that penned in the wolf but not the man? And who could build such a thing? “Well, apparently, I’m not human enough.”
“How’d they get you here in the first place?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I was unconscious.”
“You were what?” he asked with rage in his voice.
“Get me home, then eat your relatives.”
He grunted and stepped toward her. He held out a hand, and stupidly for a second, she didn’t know what he wanted.
He reached for her hand and paused. “May I?”
The simple courtesy after a day of being manhandled—or rather punk-kid-handled—was delightful. He pulled her hand through the ward but had to stop when his hand was through. It felt odd with her wrist trapped in the ward.
“Oh, for the love of—” He stepped back through. “I’m sorry,” he said and stood behind her. “I’m going to have to?—”
“Just do it.”
“Sorry,” he repeated as he stepped behind her, ran his hand down her arm to her wrist, and curled his other around her middle until she was flush against him.
She wasn’t sorry. She should have been, but she wasn’t.
“Go on,” she said with exasperation that she hoped masked her accelerating heart.
“Left foot,” he said in her ear as his knee nudged the back of hers, and they stepped forward.
“Right foot.”
She stepped again, and they slid through the ward.
He dropped his hands, and she felt bereft. She told her traitorous ovaries not to ruin her life. He was from an enemy pack. His family had kidnapped her. He was the walking, talking, gorgeous embodiment of a terrible idea.
He jogged down the back steps and out onto the lawn.
“Wait, are we going to walk there?”
She’d re-laced her hiking boots from his stash of clothes, but they weren’t going to stand up to an extended hike. She wouldn’t stand up to an extended hike.
“No.”
He followed a path away from his house. She dashed after him; but after a few steps, she didn’t try to catch up so she could enjoy the view. He was the master of this domain, slipping through the woods in perfect silence while she seemed to find every stick to snap and every branch to disturb.
Given that she pretended to be a plant witch for the first few decades of her life to hide the fact that she was a scribe who couldn’t read, maybe the natural world was seeking revenge.
Or maybe she just couldn’t stop looking at his ass.
She was surprised by how drawn she was to him. She would say he wasn’t her type, but she didn’t really have a type. She enjoyed men, and she enjoyed sex. It was one of the few sources of amusement in a backwater town in West Virginia.
Men were straightforward. Of course, there were plenty of practical women in the world, but growing up in a coven full of witches running a thousand schemes a day left her craving the company of guys who could make her feel good without further agenda.
This draw was something else.
