Page 60 of The Wolf Queen’s Curse

“Thank you,” I say with a curtsy. “Now it’s your turn.”

One brow rises. “To do what?”

“Undress.”

His gaze settles on me, his lips twitching. “No.”

“No?”

“I’m fine.”

“So I’m going to run naked and freezing through the forest, while you pursue, fully dressed, protected from the elements?”

“Yes.” He steps toward me and runs his bare fingers up my side, leaving a trail of warmth that has me sighing in pleasure. “Did you mean what you said earlier?”

“I’ve said a lot of things. I’m sure I meant them all, but you might need to be more specific.”

His hands cup my breasts, the heat of his skin incredible.

“You said you’re mine,” he says. “My mate. My wife. Did you mean that?”

I look up at him. “I did.”

“Then I meant what I said.” He squeezes my nipples, and I hiss in pleasure. “When I catch you, you’ll no longer be a virgin.”

“If you catch me.”

He grins. “When.”

I move closer, so close I can feel the burning heat of his body, the fever of that thwarted transformation lingering.

“If,” I say. “Because you want a chase, a hunt, a real one, not me running a few paces before you take me down. You want to win your prize, and if you do…” I lift up until my lips hover by his. “It’s yours.”

He squeezes my nipples hard enough to make me gasp. “This might not be the mood you want me in.”

“It’s exactly the mood I want you in. A fitting wedding night for a werewolf mate.”

He reaches to pull me to him, but I dance back out of his reach. His smile grows, and he lunges, snatching me before I can escape, but he only gives me a quick kiss, then lifts me up and turns me around. When he sets me down, he slaps my rear and says, “You have to the count of fifty. I’ll make it a slow count. Give me a good hunt.” Another slap. “Now run.”

TWENTY-ONE

Bishop starts counting down from fifty. I presume he’s looking away or closing his eyes, but I’m not taking that extra moment to check. At least he let me keep my boots on, which means I can move fast, and I do, dodging around bushes that would scratch my bare skin.

I get about ten paces before I realize the problem with my strategy—that it’s not a strategy at all. I’m running full out to take advantage of my head start, as if my pursuer is a human and not a werewolf who can smell where I went.

I stop and check the air. There’s definitely a breeze, and I’m running straight into it, which means my scent is billowing out like a flag behind me. I veer left and circle an oak and then run full out again, only to realize I’m still making a mistake.

He’s a werewolf. He can hear me.

Bishop is counting—slowly, as promised, wanting to make sure I have enough of a head start that he’ll get a proper chase. I listen to his voice, the rawness of it, the growl to it, and I shiver. He wants this. And I want it, too.

A chase. A hunt. Pursued through the forest, naked, the cold air prickling my skin, my heart hammering.

A wedding night fit for a werewolf and his lycan mate.

I can’t make it too easy.

He has to earn it.