Page 85 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

Sorcha shook her head. “It’s your nose.”

“Can’t be—I don’t breathe.”

She rolled her eyes. “How many debutantes did you drink from?”

“Only the one. And her suitor. He was a bit drunk. Also, her cousin. So…five?”

“You’re blood drunk.”

“I’m far too experienced to get blood drunk.”

“That would sound more convincing if you weren’t hiccupping. And if you could remember basic arithmetic.”

“Probably.” Hecuba pushed past Sorcha and into her room. The doorknob was lacy with frost. Granny must have been by. “Where’s your wolf?”

“I don’t know.”

Hecuba curled up on the chair, wrapping one of Sorcha’s discarded shawls around her shoulders. Her pale hair was white as bone. Her lavender eyes glinted like a cat’s. “Your room is a mess.”

“So is yours,” Sorcha returned, climbing into her bed.

“True. It’s why we get along so well.”

“Are you sleeping in that chair?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Sorcha yawned. “Why?”

“I’m bored.”

She cracked one eye open. “Are you guarding me? Because there’s no reason to think the Collector suddenly knows who I really am.”

“Certainly not.” Hecuba sniffed. “I don’t like you that much.”

Aidan paced the perimeter of the estate, noting wards, scenting the wind for danger. He’d woken with a growl lodged in his throat again, his heart pounding so hard he felt it in his teeth.

Wolf tracks on the beach, the burn of fangs tearing through him.

The moon.

The taste of Sorcha in his mouth.

The struggle to keep the wolf from taking him over.

The moon.

And again, always, the taste of Sorcha in his mouth.

The next morning, Sorcha found Hecuba’s chair empty and Briar and Pippa in her kitchen, drinking tea and eating rolls with butter and black currant jam.

Briar wore her usual apron of many pockets, overflowing with flowers and leaves and a curved silver boline knife. Her cane rested against the table, carved with roses. Her familiar, an elegant and vicious swan, had roosted under the worktable.

Pippa’s golden hair caught the light coming in through the narrow window. Her leather pack hung on the back of her chair, filled with books. Her glowing moth familiar floated nearby.

Her friends glanced up in unison, spearing her with identical judgmental looks.

Exceedingly judgmental.