Текст книги "Forever And A Day"

Автор книги: Ann Gimpel

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

Chapter Seven

Senses still heightened from spending time in her cat form, Tamara scented Lars’ arousal as soon as she cracked the bedroom door. It arrowed right into her crotch, which flooded with desire. Her face heated and she knew she was blushing furiously. He gazed at her, gray eyes smoky with something she didn’t have a name for, looking like a human version of a big cat on the prowl.

“I heard the phone.” Tamara ignored her suddenly heavy, aching breasts and the second heart beating between her legs.

“It was nothing.” He shifted position on the sofa and she noticed the pillow dead center in his lap. Had she interrupted him masturbating?

Her face got even hotter at the thought of his well-formed fingers stroking his shaft. Somehow she just knew his cock would be as amazing as the rest of him. She wanted to walk to the sofa, wrap her arms around him, and taste his lips again, but he wasn’t exactly asking her to join him.

“Are you well, fraulein? Do you need me to find a physician after all?”

“Sure and I am mostly better. I worried the phone call might mean we had to leave, so I hurried things up a bit.” She pressed her thighs together, not remembering if she’d ever been anywhere near this hot before.

“It was just Garen. His intel connections are excellent. He knew about the woman who tried to kill you and wished to assure himself we were all right.”

“If that was all… I-I’ll be bathing.” She tried to take a deep breath; it wasn’t easy. At least in the bathroom, she’d escape the embarrassment of having walked in on him—and she could take care of her own needs. All she could think about was fucking Lars, feeling his hands moving over her body and his cock buried inside her. Before she tossed caution to the winds and threw her overheated body into his arms, she hustled into the bathroom. The second she shut the door, she crammed a hand between her legs and pushed her swollen labia against her fingers. Her other hand settled on a pebbled nipple. A muted yelp escaped and she bit her lower lip to stifle further sounds.

A tap vibrated against the bathroom door. She froze. Had she flipped the lock? Tamara straightened. Another tap. “Yes?” Her voice rang hollowly. She dragged her hands away from her breast and pussy and stood straight.

“Open the door.” Lars’ voice was harsh, raspy with the same need raging in her nether regions.

Tamara snaked a hand out and turned the knob. He surged into the small space, crushed her against him, and slashed his mouth down on hers. She opened herself to him, desperate for the feel of him, the taste of him. His scent eddied about them; she inhaled hungrily, and the musk of his heat stoked her own inner fire. He sank his tongue inside her mouth. She sparred with it, nibbling, licking, sucking, biting. He ran his hands down her back and cupped the curves of her ass, drawing her against him. His cock pressed against her belly; he groaned and thrust against her.

She ground her hips against his pelvis and then moved to capture one of his legs between her thighs. The heat of his body pressing on her clit was almost more than she could stand. She reached between them and undid his belt and the fastenings on his trousers. Frantic to feel him, she pressed a hand inside his pants and curved her fingers around his cock. It was long, hard, thick, and quivering with need.

Her mind was a muddle. Shoes. His shoes would be a problem. She broke away from their kiss and slithered down his body until she knelt before him. Still gripping his shaft in one hand, she licked and kissed her way up and down it. He buried his hands in her hair and showed her the rhythm he needed. She milked him with hands, mouth, teeth, tongue. The hotter he got, the more she wanted to please him. All thoughts of removing his shoes, which was why she’d kneeled in the first place, fled.

He tried to pull away, but she held fast. His cock bucked in her hand. He made an incredible sound, half purr, half growl, low in the back of his throat, just before semen jetted into her mouth. Tamara clung to him, made his pleasure last as long as it could.

He stroked her hair gently, murmuring in German. Even though his cock was still rigid, he pulled it out of her mouth, kneeled beside her, and closed his mouth over hers. He dragged a couple of thick towels off a nearby rack, placed them on the floor and drew her down onto them. Next he tugged her sweater out of the way and settled a hand over one of her breasts. At first he just held its weight in his hand, and then he teased her nipple, twirling his fingers around it until it ached with desire. He trailed kisses down her neck, moved to her exposed breast, licked and suckled it thoroughly before exchanging it for the other one.

 He fumbled with the button and zipper of her jeans. She pushed them down her hips. He moved lower, breath hot when his mouth moved across her stomach. She thrust her hips upward again and again, wanting to come, needing to come, wanting Lars to be the instrument that gave her body release.

He swirled his fingers around her clit and then moved his hand so he could sink two fingers inside her pussy. Heat seared her. His mouth. He licked, sucked, kissed her sensitive nub, while knowing fingers plumbed her vault. Tamara writhed beneath him. A climax spooled deep in her belly. He must have sensed it from the tension in her clit and against his fingers because he moved harder, faster.

She came, squirming and shrieking as spasms shot through her, but he didn’t stop. A second orgasm crowded on the heels of the first, leaving her stunned, breathless.

Somehow, she found herself in his arms and held on like a drowning woman might to a spar. They lay like that for long moments as the world came back into focus. She remembered herself and struggled to sit. He let go and looked at her; something flickered in the backs of his eyes. Was it sadness? Regret?

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “Sure and you’re quite the attractive man. Everything has been so intense, I lost control of my judgment.”

“Sex and death are linked, fraulein. Never forget that.” His deep voice grated, full of strong emotion. “When one is close, the other is never far away. It is not accidental orgasm is called la petite mort. The little death. We never come so close to death as we do during sex.”

“I hadn’t heard that before.” Why wasn’t he saying he liked her, wanted to get to know her better? Och, and I forgot, he probably has a wife. She got unsteadily to her feet and tugged her snug pants over her hips. “I’m sorry. I’ll be keeping myself under better control.”

He looked away. “As you wish, fraulein.” He stood, gathered his trousers, zipped them, and bowed stiffly. “Thank you for a charming interlude.” He turned and left, pulling the bathroom door shut behind him.

What the hell just happened? She flipped the taps and started the tub filling. Tamara sat on the toilet and took off her lace-up boots. Next, she stripped off her clothes and got into the tub with a small bar of soap, a washcloth, and a miniature plastic bottle of shampoo. It was fortunate she had something to do that kept her rooted in the bathroom. She wanted to rush into the living room, strip him naked, and crawl all over his body. What they’d shared had been a teaser, an appetizer. She wanted more of him, much more.

“Back off,” she murmured as she soaped, rinsed, shampooed. “If he were free, he’d have said as much.” She snorted. He’d have said something. He certainly wouldn’t have come up with that hokey lecture about sex and death. Never mind the philosophical yammering about orgasm. When she replayed their post-sex interaction, her inescapable conclusion was he’d seemed wretchedly uncomfortable.

Uncomfortable. Aye, that’s the key. He wants me just as much as I want him. We caught each other at a weak moment. Now guilt’s pricking him, on account of his wife or girlfriend, and he doesn’t know quite which way to turn.

Tamara levered herself from the water using the sides of the tub, stepped out, and dried off. She wished she’d had the presence of mind to drag her suitcase into the bathroom. Now she’d have to put the same clothes she’d spent the last eight or nine hours wearing back on.

That’s the least of my problems. She opened the tub’s drain, dressed, and hunted down a hairdryer. Tamara was stalling, but she wasn’t anxious to leave the bathroom and face Lars. What on earth would they say to one another? Should she reassure him she wasn’t a threat to his marriage?

I was going to do that earlier, and I never did. She placed her hand on the doorknob and sought the same resolve that had strengthened her spine when things got dicey with Jaret. When she had her emotions well enough in hand to keep tears at bay, she took a deep breath. She’d always wanted a man just like Lars, but he was taken. Even if he wasn’t, there was still the problem of her shifter blood. She’d just have to buck up and play the ball where it lay.

•●•

Lars stumbled from the bathroom. He hadn’t meant to accost her, but he’d sensed her arousal when she stepped from the bedroom. His cock was already so hard it ached. Seeing her, knowing she struggled with wanting him, undid him. Once she’d opened the door—at his request—he’d been hit full on by the heady scent of her desire and the game had been up. Nothing shy of a tsunami crashing through the suite could have kept them out of one another’s arms.

Ja, and look what it has bought me? We grappled like animals on the bathroom floor. I did not even have the presence of mind to pick her up, carry her to the bed, make love to her like the princess she is.

Fury swept through him and he pounded his fist into the nearest object. A lamp crashed to the floor. He froze, expecting the bathroom door to burst open, but then he realized she probably couldn’t hear anything over the sound of running water. Blowing out a frustrated breath, he kneeled, picked up the broken pieces, and carried them to the kitchen wastebasket.

Because he felt too hyped up to sit, he ran cold water at the kitchen sink and sluiced it over his face. The sweet taste of her pussy lingered on his tongue. His cock twitched, wanting more—much more.

Her body was amazing, even better than he’d imagined. She had full breasts with sand dollar nipples the color of burnished copper. A light dusting of freckles covered her chest, making him suspect at least one of her parents was a redhead. A slender waist flared to generous hips and a firmly muscled bottom. Tight black curls guarded the entrance to her body; they’d glistened with her fluids even before he’d closed his mouth over her. And her legs… He shut his eyes for a moment, picturing them. Long and shapely, they were banded with lean muscle. She must be a runner, or a climber, to have legs like that. Or maybe she rode a bike.

He cursed softly in German. None of it mattered. He’d always been a klutz socially. Working as an espionage agent fit his makeup perfectly because he never had to make small talk or schmooze people. That was more Garen’s job. Garen could be charming. Lars stumbled when he had to be anything less than straightforward.

He walked to a window, curled his hands around the sill, and looked out at the New York skyline. Forcing long, slow breaths, he catalogued what he knew about Tamara. It wasn’t much. Really only what Garen had told him. Maybe if they got to know one another first… He shook his head. That wouldn’t work. Not until the shifter stumbling block had been addressed. With that still standing in the way, the best they could tell each other would be half-truths.

He was three hundred sixty-seven years old, a few years older than Garen. Any history he shared with Tamara would be a sham unless he could admit that. He sensed she was much younger, but these things were difficult to assess.

Maybe I should not do anything until after we get to Seattle. He winced. Definitely the coward’s way out, but it seemed easier than any of the alternatives. What if she’d used some sort of Celtic witchcraft to heal herself and she wasn’t a shifter after all? Garen’s intel was good, but it wasn’t foolproof. He hadn’t gotten a look at her wound while they’d clawed at one another, ripe with need, because he’d never gotten her top off. All he’d done was shove it north of her breasts. If he’d seen her bare shoulder, he’d have recognized shifter healing. As it was, he could only guess.

I was little better than an animal in rut. He let go of the windowsill, doubled his hand into a fist, and slammed it into his thigh. His muscles bunched like they did when he found himself in life-and-death situations; he forced himself to relax, to breathe. He wouldn’t do anyone any good if he was this spun out.

The bathroom door opened. Even though it was a normal sound, he started as if a gun had gone off behind him. The soft patter of her footsteps moved toward him. He arranged his face in what he hoped was a neutral expression and turned.

She gazed at him with a sad, drawn expression and his heart shattered. Had he brought her to this? She’d been so strong, had survived her charade with Jaret Chen… “Fraulein.” He held out his hands.

“It’s all right.” She licked her lips. “Truly it is. I am sorry things got out of control. I assure you I will not be so brazen again.” She looked at the floor. “Sure and I’m not understanding exactly what got into me, but I said that before.”

“If that is what you wish,” he said stiffly, not wanting to betray any emotion that she might construe as pressure to change her mind, “I, too, will be more circumspect. You are a very beautiful woman. Any man would—”

She shoved a hand toward him, palm facing outward. “Stop. It’s better for us to speak of other things. How much more time until we return to the airplane?”

He glanced at his wrist. “A couple of hours.”

She scrubbed the heels of her hands up her cheeks and blew out a breath. “Seems like enough time. Maybe you could be telling me more about this company of yours. The one you’re wanting me to work for.”

“What do you wish to know?”

She tried to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Everything.” Tamara walked into the small, open kitchen and began rifling through cupboards and drawers. “My goodness, but there’s a decent selection of ingredients here. While you talk, I’ll be making us a bit of a snack.”

“Ja, the concierge sees these kitchens are well stocked. You do not have to cook for me, fraulein.”

She spun to face him; her mouth was set in a tense line, her eyes were hooded. “I know, but I’m happier when I’m busy. If you see me reach for some ingredient you hate, speak up.”

“I am easy to please. Whatever you prepare will be wonderful.” Lars knew he sounded like an automaton, but his hands were tied. He couldn’t talk about what he wanted to. There were too many barriers. He turned one of the kitchen chairs around and sat, crossing his arms over its backrest. Tamara moved about the kitchen with grace and confidence. She was apparently making an omelet-esque dish with chopped fresh vegetables and grated cheese. Because her back was to him, it spared them having to look at one another.

She’d asked about The Company. What he could tell her about that was limited, since he couldn’t discuss its origins during the Revolutionary War, nor the fact that all field agents were shifters.

“Well?” She spoke to the skillet simmering in front of her, rather than to him. “It seems I have some decisions to make, and quite soon. I can’t be making them without a spot more information.”

“Of course, fraulein.” Lars took a measured breath. “Garen founded the company when he became concerned about the incompetence of the United States government to deal with threats to the free world. It took many years, but he has gathered as fine a team of intelligence agents as exists anywhere. We are loyal to the core.

“For many years I worked for a different company located in Germany. Same objectives, but separate management. Recently, we merged with The Company to better serve our common interests.”

She set a steaming plate in front of him. It smelled wonderful and reminded him how long since he’d had a real meal. “Would you like some tea with this—or maybe coffee?” she asked.

“Tea would be fine.”

She nodded. “Excellent. I brewed a pot, and I made enough for both of us…” She gave an apologetic shrug. “I suppose I should have asked, but I didn’t want to be interrupting you.”

“It is wonderful, fraulein. Thank you. Come sit so you can eat too.”

She brought her own plate to the table, poured tea for them, and spread a selection of condiments in front of him. He looked up from eating. “This is exceptional. Have you ever worked as a cook?”

“Sure and I’ve done a little bit of everything over the years. Cooking, waitressing, receptionist work. My family wasn’t exactly poor, but there was never much left over. I worked my way through college.”

She tucked into her food. He watched her sidelong, thinking she was the most enchanting woman he’d ever met. Of course she wouldn’t want a tongue-tied lout like him. Tamara looked up. “Tell me more? How many people work for The Company? Is Garen the boss?”

Lars nodded and took a sip of tea. It was brewed to perfection, just as the omelet was a succulent combination of crisp-tender vegetables, melted cheese, and just-right eggs. What a plus that she could cook. A plus for some other man, he thought sourly.

He reined in his disappointment and addressed her questions. “Between the European firm and the American one, there are just over a hundred employees. All are independent contractors. A board of directors is in charge of operations, so there is not a boss per se. Garen, Miranda, myself, and two others comprise the board…”

She fed him questions so skillfully, Lars was surprised when he glanced over at the microwave’s clock and discovered they’d run out of time. Even though they hadn’t discussed anything of consequence, he felt better, more balanced, than he had while he’d watched her cook.

“Thank you,” he said and got up. He gathered their few dishes and ferried them to the counter.

“Is it time?”

He nodded. “Yes, the airplane should be ready for us. I need to make a call and confirm our flight plan.” He picked up his cell phone and started to dial when a thought occurred to him. “Not that anyone will ask, but if they do, you are my copilot.”

Her eyes rounded. “I’ve fooled around a wee bit in single engine airplanes, but they’re nothing like what we flew across the Atlantic. I only recognized a few of the instruments in the cockpit. What if they ask for papers? A license?”

“They will not. If anyone should say anything, let me do the talking.” He hesitated. “The basic flight principles are the same, no matter what the aircraft. Perhaps we could use the next few hours to augment your knowledge base.”

A smile bloomed on her face, and she clapped her hands together. “Sure and I’d like that.” For the barest moment, she looked carefree. Lars wished he’d found her before she’d killed Jaret, wished he’d gotten to the man first. Though they hadn’t talked about it, she was probably still figuring out her life would never be the same. That sort of thing sank in gradually. If she had to absorb the full impact of her actions all at once, it might be too much to take in.

He opened his mouth to give voice to some of his thoughts, changed his mind, and simply said, “My pleasure, fraulein.” To avoid further conversation, he glanced at his phone and punched in the numbers to file their flight plan.

Chapter Eight

Tamara settled into the copilot’s seat and put the headset Lars handed her over her head. Thank all the saints the tension had bled out of the air between them. Somewhere between her making them a midday meal and talking about his work, things had cleared. Maybe he’d found a place to stuff his guilt over being unfaithful. She covered a grimace with a cough and rotated her injured shoulder. Though she hadn’t fully finished healing it in shifted form, it was good enough and the pain minimal.

He jabbered to the tower in pilot-ese, and the plane rolled out of the hangar and took its place in line for takeoff. “Do you have a private pilot’s license?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yes, but not very many hours, and all of them in tiny, single engine planes.”

“Why did you not fly more?”

“It’s very dear. The only reason I learned to fly at all was because my brother owns a small air cargo operation just north of Dublin. He knew how much I loved being in the air, so he took pity on me. He couldn’t afford to give me totally free lessons, but all I had to pay for was fuel.”

Lars glanced at her and smiled. “I am so glad you love to fly. It is one of my passions.”

Tamara couldn’t help herself. The words burst from her before she could modulate them. “What are your other ones?”

Color rose from the open neck of his buff-colored linen shirt. Her headset crackled with a spate of instructions from the tower and he said, “They have cleared us for takeoff, fraulein. We will talk more once we are airborne. Place your feet on the rudders and your hands on the yoke. Feel what I do with them. Watch what I do with the throttle and keep an eye on these sets of instruments.” He ran his index finger down a row of round dials between them. She noticed two identical rows and understood one was for each engine. He’d sidestepped her question about his passions, but there’d be time to ask again between now and Seattle.

She curled her hands around the yoke and settled her feet lightly on the rudder pedals. In an odd way, it almost felt as if he were caressing her through the plane’s controls. Tamara almost laughed aloud at her wishful thinking. Powerful jet engines revved. The plane bounded down the runway and rose smoothly into the air. She felt when he let up on the right rudder pedal, felt when he evened out the yoke, watched the instrument display needles hover at the top of the green zone before settling back to where they had a larger safety margin. All the while, she eyed him sidelong through lowered lashes.

Lars flew the plane as if it were an extension of his body. He seemed to sense its needs in his bones, responding before the plane needed his intervention. He looked her way, caught her gaze on him, and hastily returned his attention to the instrument panel. Tamara looked away also, but his smoke-colored eyes remained in her mind. So did his thick, white-blonde hair and athlete’s build.

“So.” His voice sounded strained. “We have just passed through ten thousand feet. I understand you do not usually fly so high in the small planes without pressurized cabins, but what is important about ten thousand feet?”

She captured her lower lip between her teeth and tried to focus on something other than Lars’ hands and wishing they were moving over her body rather than on the airplane’s controls. “Takeoffs and landings are when the plane is vulnerable, in most danger of crashing.” She took a breath, thinking. “With the small planes, it’s a relief to get enough altitude so there is a cushion, in case I have to plan an emergency landing. I’m thinking it might be similar, but this plane is so heavy, if we lost power, surely we’d die.”

He shook his head. “As I said earlier, the mechanics are the same. The more distance we are from the ground, the more time I have to come up with Plan B if something goes wrong.” In a move that both shocked and thrilled her, he reached across the cockpit and placed a hand on her thigh. “Tell me about yourself, fraulein. I wish to get to know you.”

Heat swooshed from her chest to the top of her head. “That doesn’t sound like a flying lesson.”

He cocked his head to one side. “The only things left to do are,” he held up one finger and tapped her thigh with it, “climb to cruising altitude and,” he held up a second finger, “set a course. They are the same as you already know.” He tightened his fingers across the top of her thigh, stroking her. “I know this airplane. Let me get to know you.”

Her crotch flooded with moisture; breath clotted in her throat. Tamara struggled to understand how his touch affected her so strongly. She wriggled in her seat and clamped her legs together. “Sure and my life hasn’t been very interesting—” she began.

He ignored her disclaimer. “Were you born in Dublin?”

“Yes. Well, not precisely. My family is from Drogheda, maybe fifty kilometers north of Dublin. It’s on the River Boyne just before it runs into the Irish Sea.”

“Ja.” His fingers inscribed small circles on top of her leg. “I know it. A port town. I spent time in Northern Ireland. We retreated to Drogheda by boat when things got too dangerous.”

Tamara twisted in her seat and gazed at him. “You’ve had quite the adventuresome life. Maybe you could be telling me about it, rather than my poor recitation.”

He punched in some numbers, and then turned and met her gaze. “There. We are at cruise altitude, and I have engaged the autopilot. I wish to get to know who you are, Tamara MacBride. I have had very little practice at this sort of thing, but you sharing what you want to about your life must be a first step. Otherwise, you will remain an enigma to me.”

“Very little practice, is it? What about your wife?” she blurted.

He drew back as if she’d shot him. “Wife? What wife?”

“The one you were unfaithful to back in the airport terminal.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. There. She’d gotten it out in the open. Maybe she hadn’t been particularly elegant about it, but she’d become heartily sick of her cloak-and-dagger existence with Jaret.

A slow grin started with his mouth and finally reached his eyes. “I understand better now.” He moved his hand from her leg to her crossed arms. “There is no wife. Not even a girlfriend. I have not led the sort of life that lends itself to emotional entanglements.”

“Really?” Her voice came out as a squeak. She tried for composure, but made a grab for his hand and clung to it. She wanted to jump out of her seat and dance up and down the aisle, but restrained herself.

“Really.” Something warm and tender shaded his eyes to charcoal. “Now will you tell me about yourself?”

“Oh. Sure and I’d forgotten that was what began this.”

His jaw tightened in what might have been resolve. “I did not mean for us to begin by pawing one another in that bathroom.” He shrugged, looking sheepish. “You are a very beautiful woman. It was impossible to restrain myself once I knew you wanted me as desperately as I craved you.” He squeezed her hand. “Who are you, fraulein? I assumed you were not married because no husband would ever agree to you posing as Jaret Chen’s woman, but I wondered about a boyfriend, or maybe a fiancé back in Ireland.”

“I’ve had both.” She shook hair out of her eyes, still trying to wrap her mind around Lars not being attached. She’d thought it so many times, it had turned into reality.

“Start at the beginning,” he suggested. “It is easier that way.”

“I come from a big family. One sister, but you already know about poor Moira, and four brothers. I’m sort of in the middle of the pack. Mum and Da are still alive, and still married. They moved to the outskirts of Dublin before I started secondary school. Da is a jeweler and a better opportunity opened up for him. Mum plays violin; she got tapped by the Dublin Symphony soon after we moved.”

Tamara considered what else she could share. Her entire family were shifters, but that part had no place here. It was also a reason Lars wouldn’t be interested in her, and not something she could hide, at least not for very long. She clamped her jaws together, her earlier elation fading like a sunset gone bad. “This isn’t a good idea.”

“Why not?” He smiled encouragingly. “You were doing fine.”

“I, er, that is, I’m not as free as I was thinking I was.”

He knit his brows together. “Help me understand. That is not the type of thing one forgets.”

“I can’t talk about it.” She let go of his hand as if it were a poisonous snake. “Maybe it would be a good idea for me to spend some time in the cabin.” Unbuckling her seat harness, she stumbled through the cockpit door. Thank the bloody saints she made it all the way to the head before tears overcame her resolve to not break down. She closeted herself inside the tiny bathroom and dropped her head into her hands.

Maybe I should just tell him what I am.

But she knew she wouldn’t because she couldn’t stand to see the horror—or worse, pity—mirrored on his face when she revealed her true nature.

•●•

Lars retreated to his seat from where he’d been leaning halfway across the cockpit. He may not have had much experience with women, but Tamara’s rapid about-face stunned him. Things had been going so well. She’d been warm, funny, half-aroused by his touch. And then it was as if a gateway had slammed shut.

What did I do?

He raked through his memory of what they’d said to one another and couldn’t pinpoint a thing. To divert himself, he extracted data from the onboard computer. They’d be in the air for hours yet. Difficult hours if she remained in the cabin and refused to tell him what was wrong. He could leave the cockpit, but not for long. It was one of the advantages of flying with a copilot.

Her scent lingered in the air. She hadn’t been the only one aroused. His cock throbbed with need. He told it to stand down, but it had other ideas. Worse, as often happened when he was upset, his cat wanted out. He struggled to keep claws from bursting through his fingertips. Shifting in the cockpit was a terrible idea. His cat could do a lot of damage without meaning to.

He searched for a rational explanation. She’d been talking about her family when things had gone to hell. There had to be a connection, but what? He gripped the yoke so hard, the aircraft shuddered, and he forced himself to let go of the controls. The autopilot would take care of course corrections. He didn’t need to do a thing until they got close to Seattle and Boeing Field.

Family. Was there something about her family she wanted to hide? He snapped his fingers. Of course. She held magic, probably shifter magic, but maybe something different. Magic always had a genetic basis, except for the odd lycan who inherited theirs through being bitten. She was protecting her family. Lars took a deep breath. There wasn’t any help for what would come next. He’d have to expose what he was. Maybe if he did, she wouldn’t feel so vulnerable.