Page 116 of Spar of Hearts

“What are you doing?” he asked. Heat spread up his neck to his jawline, pulsing there in increasingly feverish waves until both his cheeks were engulfed in the delicious warmth.

Anya touched two fingers to his cheek. “A princess has to tend to your wounds, remember?”

Closing his eyes, he leaned into her touch. He felt better already.

“Thank you.”

His thoughts reeled as Anya made quick work cleaning his scrapes, eyes reflecting their golden glow in the firelight. Was now the time?

She leaned down, pulling out a jar of numbing salve. She scooped a bit onto two claws, then grasped his bicep with her other hand.

“I’ll try not to scratch you,” she mumbled. “Claws aren’t good with creams.”

“Trust me, I don’t mind.”

He shivered as Anya pressed her claws hard against his bicep, scraping the salve onto his skin. If that weren’t enough to make every intelligent thought flee from his mind, she began to massage it into his muscles in long, slow strokes.

“Ngh,” he groaned, half from pain, half pleasure. After a minute of the exhilarating combination, he was finally able to form words again. “I’m sorry about this. I had intended to make it a more romantic evening.”

She moved her way up his arm, working the camphoraceous salve into his shoulder. Every undulation of her fingers brought him a little closer to heaven.

Then she kissed his cheek, so lightly he feared it was an accident until she spoke, every word a gentle breath against his skin.

“You got bruised and bloodied to buy me a book. I don’t think it gets more romantic than that.”

They reflected on the tavern fight, theorizing wildly about the Elves, the Weres, and the culture of Aquillas as Anya finished applying the salve. It had to be torturous to her, to not be able to ask questions of folk plainly. There were probably a hundred fizzling on the tip of her tongue at every moment.

Awooooo…

Anya’s pupils dilated. Her head whipped to the north.

A raucous chorus of yips and howls dominated the soft hoots and chirps of nighttime fauna. Anya’s fingers pulsed against his bruised wrist.

There was a ghost of words behind each howl.

Brother, sister, friend.

Run with us—under moonlight, under stars, under Mother’s watchful eye.

Anya stood, releasing his arm. “Do you hear that?”

The cacophony grew louder, more wild. Snapping branches and rustling leaves made his nerves prickle. Anya as a wolf was one thing. Being surrounded by strange Weres in wolf form was another. And were all wolves Weres? How would he tell?

“Anya, we shouldn’t get closer. They could—”

“I just want to see them. Please,” she begged. “A real pack.”

Those three words made his heart splinter.

A real pack.

Full of real Weres.

“All right.” He sighed. “Lead the way.”

Anya shifted in a flash, then trotted to the north. She bobbed and weaved under half-fallen trees and around pricker bushes with alert precision. A dozen yards in, she shifted back to two legs and looked around.

“I think they’re close,” she said, squinting into the darkness.