Page 29 of Rejected By the Winter Wolf

I raise my hand, blocking the light from my eyes.

Even that hurts. The muscles in my arms ache and pull.

I’ve been put through a freaking meat grinder, but I survived. Somehow.

He closes the door behind him and strides farther into the room. I slowly drop my arm. He stops beside the bed. His blue eyes seem to spear into me. I don’t like how they rub me raw. I’m already too vulnerable for my liking.

“Witch.” He says, a greeting as much as an insult.

“Dog.” My temper might be the only thing left uninjured.

He narrows his eyes. “I need to look at your back.”

“Why?”

“Because my cousin dragged his claws through your skin and it almost killed you.” His eyes flash darker blue. “Reason enough?”

My jaw works. What would be really nice, instead of dealing with his brutishness, would be a glass of water. But more than the thirst is my curiosity.

“Your cousin?”

“Our fathers were brothers. Twins.”

Rare for wolves. Supposedly. I don’t really know.

He offers his hand. I wait for it to turn into a claw, for him to end me for good. I have so many questions, and he’s giving me the sense that he’d answer none if only to drive me crazy.

When nothing crazy happens, I put my hand in his. Our palms slide together, and a tingling sensation flows through me.

“Do you feel that?” I ask.

Is it like a warning that I shouldn’t be touching him? It doesn’t feel bad, necessarily, but maybe it’s going to rot me from the inside. A curse meant to keep witches and wolves separate.

Maybe lightning will strike us, or the roof will cave in, or…

He shakes his head, a mask slipping over his features. I didn’t realize it wasn’t there until it returns. His expression remains stony as he helps me sit up, then guides my upper body forward. His hands move to the shirt—oh my God, I’m not wearing my shirt.

I pinch the hem between my fingers. It’s cotton. White. A few sizes too big, which is saying a lot. I never fit into my mother’s clothes. She was—is, Astra, she’s still alive—stick-thin, whereas I grew curves and held on to them.

“Did you see her?”

He lifts up the back of it, careful not to touch my skin. The warm air buffs against my spine, and goosebumps break out along my arms.

“Who?”

I scowl at my lap. “My mother. When she got me out of there?”

He’s silent for a long moment. Too long.

“Where are my clothes?” I ask instead, trying to remain neutral.

Of course he won’t answer anything about my mother. He was hunting for her, too, wasn’t he? Or his pack… some wolves were there for her, and I can only assume it was his.

I have a hell of a lot more questions—like how he found me, how he got me back here, how I supposedly called to him. Why I’m not wearing my own clothes… although I think it was probably because they were ripped to shreds by his cousin.

Did he see me naked?

My stomach churns.