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“You’re not sleeping here?” I mumble, drowsy, confused.
He gives a dry laugh, as if that’s a crazy idea. Maybe it is. I’m not sure if I’d be able to sleep with him beside me. “No. I’ll be in my tent.”
“I can’t kick you out of your bed.”
“My wolf likes sleeping outside. Night, Savannah. Sweet dreams.”
He shuts the door, and I’m alone inside Bertha.
I wash up, then slide beneath the comforter. The pillow smells of him—his spicy, exciting masculine scent—and desire shudders through me yet again.
I turn onto my back. I don’t understand men. I wish my mom had told me about their complexities and contradictions, instead of just warning me about the ugliness and suffering under their brutal harems.
