with wolf’s soul, made her want to laugh and cry all at once?
He still struggled with himself, his skin twitching beneath her touch, his gaze ever so faintly confused.
“I—” she said, and ran out of words all over again, even if her hand still reached.
Nick’s hand shot out to capture her wrist. “Jet,” he said, from between gritted teeth.
But oh, she wanted. She searched his gaze, looking for understanding—looking for the clues to this world, to the way things should be. And she knew what she saw there. Also wanting. “You, too,” she told him, in case he hadn’t known it. She drew the back of her knuckles lightly across the hot skin of his cheek, ever watching his eye. “Still, you are not well.”
He grasped her wrist again, more gently this time. He bit gently at the knuckles that had touched him, and then simply held her hand against his chest, trapped and still and as gentle as he might hold a living bird.
“Jet,” he said, full of wonderment. “Who are you?”
How could she explain such a thing? How could she truly explain what she’d done for Gausto—done to Nick? She tried to tug away; that gentle grip turned insistent. She tipped her head ever so slightly, exposing her neck. “He said you would not be hurt,” she told him, unable to hide the anger. “He told me he wanted to talk to you.”
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