Page 149 of Rejected By the Winter Wolf

The mind-speak is new. I wonder if just my wolf can communicate with her, or if I can, too. I push a thought at her—but her mind is walled off. Barred to me.

My wolf’s satisfaction is hard to miss.

I go into the bathroom. Straight back into the shower to get the sweat off me. And calm my hot blood.

Besides, there’s a more urgent matter: I showed half of a supernatural nightclub that I have magic. And now Astra knows, too.

It’s our power. We can use it how we see fit.

You’re being unusually chatty, I tell my wolf.

He huffs in my head. I scrub down fast and shut off the water. The bathroom is a mess of water and gouged marks, even bits of white fur. A wolf in a hotel room… ridiculous. The bloodsucker will just have to send me the fucking bill, I guess.

When I reemerge into the bedroom, the lights are off and Astra is in bed. She’s curled on her side, facing the large windows. They’re still open, and her attention is focused on the lights.

It’s our only night in Vegas. We can’t just go to sleep.

“Get up,” I say.

She sighs.

“Come on, get up.” I whip the blankets off her body.

She curls into herself.

I go around to face her and kneel beside the bed. We’re eye level. I run my hand up her thigh, stopping at her hip.

“You don’t want to experience the Vegas strip nightlife from in here, do you? That’s no better than watching it on television.” I offer her my hand. “Trust me.”

Tears flood her eyes. She makes no move to wipe them away or hide them.

“That’s the problem,” she whispers. “I’m starting to trust you—and I know that’s going to get me hurt the worst.”

My wolf preens that she’s coming around, that we’re winning her over, but I know it’s worse than that. That we only get one chance at trust. The problem is, there’s way too much at stake for either one of us to give in to this.

Astra has her goals.

I have mine.

“One night,” I say instead. “And then we can go back to mutual dislike.”

She sniffles and sits up, swiping at her cheeks. Carefully, she nods. I smile at her and grab her bag, rooting for clothes. I still when I touch the mirror tucked away in it. My fingers graze the handle, and I try to sense any magic in it—but it’s empty. It’s just a hunk of metal and glass.

My brows furrow.

“Kian?”

“Here,” I murmur, setting the whole bag beside her. “Find something.”

I hunt for my own clothes. By the time I’m dressed, she is, too. Her wet hair has been finger-brushed and is loose around her shoulders. I automatically reach for her, my magic lighting up inside me. Now that I don’t have to hide it around her, it’s easy to call it up. I draw the excess water from her hair, pulling it into a sphere between us. She watches, her lower lip caught in her teeth, until I direct the sphere into the sink.

“Fascinating,” she whispers.

I smile.

She combs through her hair again, but it’s perfectly dry. The silky blonde strands cooperate, lying in gentle waves over her shoulders. No makeup—but she doesn’t need that. Black tank top, black jeans. Her Mark.

We match.