Page 172 of Wolfkissed
The dogs and hunters will soon catch up, too.
I start running again, wandering through the plain like a desperate ghost. “Valen!” I yell to hear his name on the wind. In case any wolf is listening and can find him for me. “Valen!”
The baying is nearer now. The wind carries the shouts of people. They are closing in on me.
“Valen!” I sob for breath. “Valen…” I feel as if he’s close by, but it’s an illusion. I’m on my own. I shoved away the love of my life, and this ending serves me right.
A stream. I need a stream to erase my scent. I hear water gurgling not far from where I am, so I head that way. I have a stitch in my side. My chest hurts. Black spots dance in my eyes. And I keep running.
There. The stream is small, but it will have to do. I plunge my feet into it without hesitation and follow its course, walking in the ice-cold water, stumbling over rocks and grasses. I can’t do this for long, as the dogs come ever closer. Spotting a thicket, I splash out of the stream and dash that way on feet numb from the cold.
Just a few more feet and I’ll be under the canopy. If my strength doesn’t fail me, I can try climbing a tree. I won’t go down without a fight.
Won’t go back to Lord Eorl without a war.
But three wolves burst out of the trees and lope past me, snarling. Gasping, I turn to watch them leap over the stream and fall on the dogs and hunters.
I gape at the scene. Three huge wolves against at least ten dogs and just as many men. But these aren’t ordinary wolves.
A smile breaks over my face.
He’s here.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
ROSAMUND
The fight is over almost as soon as it began. The dogs whine and back away, tails between their legs, and the men don’t fare much better. One of the wolves has a man underneath him, growling, and another wolf, gray with a white tuft on his head, is snarling at a man holding out a knife.
Valen.
Lord Eorl isn’t among the men. He sent others to do his dirty work. I’m not surprised at all. That coward. I’m…
Shaken.
Joyous.
Exhausted.
Hopeful.
The wind lashes at me. The light is fading, but I can’t move from the spot, watching as the three wolves chase away the humans and their dogs. For long moments, they vanish from sight—all of them, people and animals—and I fight the urge to go after them.
Make sure the wolves are all right.
Eventually, they appear again, trotting toward me, tongues lolling. I grin, and yet I’m nervous. It is Valen and his friends—right? It has to be.
There is only one way of knowing, so I wait and wait until they come to me.
“Valen?” I whisper, reaching for the gray wolf with the white tuft on his head. “Is that you?”
He butts his muzzle against my hand. The stories say that the shift usually isn’t fast, except in cases of great need. A fast shift can damage a fae. Letting go of your shape to assume another is a process.
The other two wolves watch me, coming closer.
I crouch down and run my hands through the gray fur, bury my face in the wolf’s neck—and he smells like Valen.
“Itisyou,” I whisper, and my relief and joy are so great that I start to cry. “You came back.”
