Page 20 of Howl About That

"They're not that serious?—"

"Sit." She used her Alpha voice, the one that brooked no argument. "It's only fair, since you helped me."

His answering smile was devastating—warm and genuine and tinged with something that looked suspiciously like pride. He settled onto the stool she'd vacated, and she tried not to notice how his presence filled the entire kitchen with masculine energy that made her pulse quicken.

She gathered a fresh washcloth and dampened it with warm water, her hands only slightly unsteady as she approached him. The wounds across his chest were shallower than hers butstill needed attention—three parallel scratches that disappeared beneath the fabric of his shirt.

"This needs to come off," she said, gesturing to his shirt.

He complied without hesitation, pulling the torn fabric off and tossing it aside. The sight of his bare chest nearly made her forget why she was there—broad shoulders, defined muscle, a tapestry of old scars that spoke of battles fought and won. He was built like a warrior, all functional strength and controlled power.

Focus on the wounds. Not on how badly you want to trace those scars with your tongue.

She pressed the damp cloth to the first scratch, and his sharp intake of breath made her look up. His eyes had gone molten gold again, and the air between them crackled with electricity.

Her free hand braced against his shoulder for balance, and the contact sent heat shooting through her entire body. This was supposed to be clinical and practical. Instead, it felt like the most intimate thing she'd done in years.

She moved to the second wound, trying to ignore the way his muscles tensed under her touch, and the way his breathing had gone shallow and controlled. The mate bond hummed between them, growing stronger with each point of contact, each shared glance, and each moment of trust.

He's letting me take care of him.

"Poppy." His voice was rough and strained. "Come stay with me tonight."

Her hand stilled on his chest, right over his heart. She could feel it racing under her palm, matching the frantic rhythm of her own pulse.

"Just for tonight," he continued, his eyes never leaving hers. "It's not safe here right now, and I would feel better if you did."

Every logical part of her brain screamed that this was a terrible idea. Going to his den would complicate an alreadyimpossible situation. It would make her appear vulnerable, dependent, unable to protect her own home.

But she was exhausted. Bone-deep, soul-weary tired in a way that had nothing to do with the fight and everything to do with eleven years of carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. The thought of spending one night not having to be constantly vigilant, constantly strong, was almost overwhelming in its appeal.

"Alright," she heard herself say. "Just for tonight."

The relief that flooded his features was immediate and intense, and she realized he'd been prepared for her to refuse. That he'd asked knowing she might say no but needing to offer anyway.

She finished bandaging his wounds in charged silence, both of them hyperaware of every brush of skin and every shared breath. When she was done, he stood and reached for his ruined shirt.

"Go pack an overnight bag," he said, his voice carefully neutral despite the heat still burning in his eyes. "I'll meet you outside."

He turned to leave the kitchen, and Poppy watched him go, her heart hammering against her ribs. This was definitely a bad idea. Probably the second worst decision she'd made since agreeing to their partnership.

Or maybe,her lioness whispered as she headed toward her private chambers,this is exactly what you need.

EIGHT

KEIRO

The Bentley's engine hummed through the darkness as Keiro navigated the winding roads between Hudson Valley and Manhattan, his hands steady on the wheel despite the chaos churning through his mind. Two hours of sitting in the car had stretched ahead of them when they finally left Poppy's estate—two hours to process the most life-altering day he'd experienced since inheriting his father's legacy at eighteen.

He glanced toward the passenger seat, where Poppy had finally surrendered to exhaustion. Her head rested against the window, her dark hair spilling across her shoulder like silk, and for the first time since he'd met her, the weight of leadership wasn't carved into her features. Sleep had smoothed away the tension lines around her eyes, the defensive set of her jaw, and the constant vigilance that seemed as much a part of her as breathing.

She only got two hours of sleep last night because of me.

The guilt hit him fresh and sharp. His impulsive bid at the auction last night had kept her awake, probably panicking about losing everything she'd spent eleven years protecting. Then today—the partnership proposal, dinner at her estate, and theattack by rogue lions that left them both bleeding and bandaged. Twenty-four hours that had turned both their worlds upside down.

The mate bond tugged at him relentlessly, a golden thread connecting him to her, growing stronger with each mile they traveled together toward his penthouse. The scent of wildflowers and rain filled the enclosed space, wrapping around him like a warm caress that made concentration nearly impossible.

Focus on driving.