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Her stomach rumbled. She had not had a meal, a decent meal, in days. If she had been ill, her sickness had not affected her appetite.
Just her mind.
Emma bit her lip.
She could not have been rescued by a seal. She must have imagined it, conjuring the beast out of homesickness and terror and her glimpse of the seal in the harbor.
But she had not imagined the man by her bed.
Who was he?
His broad, furred chest and dark, impassive face made her heart skitter in pure feminine panic. Yet his voice, she remembered, had been deep and soothing, his eyes almost kind.
In some ways, he seemed the opposite of Paul, whose smooth good looks and easy charm had masked a callous indifference to her dreams and ambitions. To her comfort. To her feelings.
When Paul first sought her out, Emma had been flustered. Flattered by his attentions. Sir Paul Burrage was a gentleman, a governor of the school. She had believed he loved her. That he wanted to marry her. And instead—
Instead, he had manipulated, hurt, and betrayed her.
She would not let herself be misled so, used so, ever again.
She reached for the door; hesitated. The Viking had not told her to stay in her room. She was safe here, he said. She smoothed her hand down the long line of cloak buttons to ensure they were all securely fastened. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door and went in search of food and answers.
Persuade her?
Griff scowled as he descended the steps of the prince’s tower.
He was a bull. He did not persuade. He enforced the prince’s will among the males and took what was freely offered from the females.
The human woman stirred him, he admitted. Challenged him. He did not believe she was going to offer up…anything he wanted. Not without a lot of words and reasons.
Neither of which he had.
What was Conn thinking?
A scuffle in the hall below jolted Griff from his thoughts. A yelp, a low laugh, a rush of swift, padding feet…
Scattering whelps, Griff thought, running for food or from a fight. When the older bulls came in from the sea, they were not tolerant of young ones underfoot.
The hair rose on the back of Griff’s neck. When the bulls came in from the sea…
He ran down the remaining steps to the hall, taking in the situation with a single, experienced glance.
The young selkies had cleared out. Only the boy with the golden eyes hung back, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Two selkie males had backed the human woman against the wall, crowding her like mating bulls on the beach. Their faces were flushed. Their eyes glittered. Their intent hung musky on the air, already ripe with the woman’s scent and the sharper tang of fear.
Griff’s lips peeled from his teeth.
The bigger bull—Murdoc—sniffed the woman’s cloudy red hair.
She jerked her head, evading him, and her skull clunked against stone.
“Easy,” Kelvan crooned. “We don’t want to hurt you.”
Murdoc laughed. The woman’s face went white.
Cold rage rose in Griff. He growled. “Enough.”
