Lost Creek Hollow una tortura perderte

His gaze swept over the beautiful woman as she approached him. It was not just with newfound appreciation did he watch her now, but with an inkling of understanding. Silvertongue kept a vault upon herself for all of the wrong that had been done to her—so many wrongs.

He wanted to ask her if Crowfeather knew his beloved had sold her to the lavish pack to maintain his political standing with them. He wanted to ask her if Crowfeather would have wanted to tear in to the man’s throat for what he had done to her—like he had wanted to.

The world he would have tried to tear down for her if she would look to him the same as she did her co-leader.

Her eyes were warm upon him, and he found a slow and lazy smile pressing at the corner of his lips—even knowing what he knew, the way he wished to fold her into his arms and protect her from it all… she still managed to draw an easy smile from him.

And yet the vision of a freckled silver she-wolf at home was a swift reminder of his reasons for being here—the possibility of a growing family, a legacy he wished to build at the creek.

“I needed to come talk to you,” he offered, his tone a gentle murmur. As she drew closer, he leaned down, ignoring the thrum he felt at her scent and familiar warmth, and instead, offered a chaste kiss to her cheek—a far cry from the way in which he had all but devoured her at their last interlude.