Page 20 of The Wolf Queen’s Curse

“I know,” he says.

“And what was your plan for when that happened? Even before all this?”

“My plan…” He closes his eyes and shakes his head sharply before opening them. “My plan is to do exactly what you said before dinner—whatever needs to be done.”

Augustus has taken the Pack to the spot Bishop indicated, which turns out to be a barn. As Julius explained on the ride, he and Bishop have several places like it, from when they’d been building their own little Pack—Bishop’s boys—before they were allowed back into the Albion Pack. That’s why Augustus knew where to find it.

Some of these places are cottages, like Montague’s, and others are barns, like this. Bishop and Julius own them legally, making them both way stations and investments. Tomorrow, Augustus will take the Pack to a larger one—an actual house—though Julius warns it’s rough lodgings. Tonight we sleep in this barn, with clean hay and blankets pulled from storage crates.

When we arrive, the wolves are mostly sleeping. It’s only ten, but it’s been a very long two days. A few are up, playing cards taken from storage, and Bishop speaks to them before Julius joins the game while Bishop and I head upstairs to the loft, which the wolves have left for us.

Our bed is blankets that smell slightly of must but more strongly of grass and fresh air, and it’s obvious someone took the time to hang them out for us. I also suspect we have more blankets than the others. I’d never expect or ask for special treatment—nor would Bishop—but for tonight, my exhausted body appreciates the kindness.

When I start to unbutton my dress, Bishop comes up behind me and whispers, “May I?” When I hesitate, his lips lower to my ear. “I’m not trying to start anything. I know you’re tired and we don’t want to disturb anyone else’s rest.”

I smile back at him. “I wasn’t thinking that. I was thinking I don’t want you to feel obligated to do anything tonight. I’m not the only one who’s tired.”

He kisses my neck. “I am, but I don’t think I’ll ever be too weary to want to undress you, which is partly to help but also, admittedly, to enjoy the sight, even if we’re both in no shape to act on it. May I?”

“Please.”

He unbuttons the coarse and ill-fitting dress, and I exhale in relief as it drops to the floor. The petticoat comes next, tugged off and cast aside. He pauses at my drawers, head tilting.

“If you wish them off,” he says, “of course I’ll remove them, but apparently, I am not quite as exhausted as I thought.”

I press a hand to the growing bulge in his trousers and chuckle. “Apparently. Leave them on, then.”

I expect he’ll move to my corset next, which I am rather eager to remove, and I frown when he shucks his trousers instead.

I reach for my corset strings, but he stops me.

“Patience,” he says, and then doffs his shirt as quickly as his trousers.

Once he’s down to his drawers, he opens the bed of blankets and then scoops me up and manages to gracefully lie on his back, on the floor, while still holding me, which really is a feat requiring werewolf strength and his own added agility.

Without a word, he settles me on his hips, straddling him. A pause, and then he quickly moves me up to straddle his abdomen.

I flutter my lashes. “I was comfortable down there, my lord. Was it uncomfortable for you?”

“Too comfortable,” he says. “Which is why I moved you, as you know very well.”

“So I must move for you?” I start sliding back down toward his hips. “I think not. If we are both comfortable with me sitting on your—”

He grabs me under the arse, lifts me clear off him, and firmly deposits me on his chest. When I try wriggling lower, his hands grip my waist and tighten as he mock glares at me.

“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “But only because I want this cursed corset off.”

He unfastens the strings at an annoyingly languid pace. Finally, it is unfastened, and I wait for him to tug it off, but the blasted man just sits there, admiring my poor breasts, half free and straining for release. I wiggle up, and they pop over the top and I sigh with pleasure.

“That feels good, I take it?” he says. “After a day of being crushed like melons in a vise.”

“I’m not sure I’d say melons…”

“Oh, I would.” He slides one hand under each breast and cups them. “It is a crime to crush them that way.”

“I have always thought so. Tomorrow, I shall wear the dress without a corset, and they will be free to frolic as they please.” I illustrate by rocking back and forth, which seems to entrance him, and I take advantage of his distraction to shimmy down to his hips, where that bulge in his drawers slides perfectly between the split legs of my own drawers.

“Cordelia…”