Highland Wolf Pact: Blood Reign: A Scottish Werewolf Shifter Romance by Selena Kitt Page B
Authors: Selena Kitt
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wanted ye t’have it. Because… yer t’red wulver.”
He frowned. “But where’ll they sleep?”
“We’ve a room for guests.” She smiled as she passed him. “Do’na worry. Sleep well, red wulver.”
Griff grabbed her elbow and Bridget gasped. Her feet were still wet and she nearly slipped on the stone floor. Once again, he caught her.
“Will ye stay wit’ me, lass?” His eyes searched hers, his voice low and soft, gripping her upper arm. “Keep a man warm?”
“Yer not a man, yer a wulver. And… tis not m’job t’warm yer bed.” She glanced down at where he held onto her arm. His whole hand could encircle it. “If I wanted t’share it, ye’d know.”
“How would I know?” He let her go, their eyes still locked. He was smiling.
“’Cause I’d be in it.” She turned and went to the door, picking up his clothes and boots before opening it and glancing over her shoulder at him. “See ye at breakfast, red wulver. Have a g’nite.”
He gave a sigh as she started to close the door, calling out, “G’nite, Bridget.”
She stood outside his room for a moment, trying to catch her breath.
She stood there and fought with herself, fought with her own urges.
He’d asked her to come to his bed, and she’d been right to refuse him. She knew that much. It was the right thing to do, for the temple, for her role as both future high priestess and guardian. She’d made the right decision, and she knew both Alaric and Aleesa, who were bedding down at the other end of the long tunnel, would be proud of her.
So why did she feel so empty?
Chapter Five
Griff spent the next three days, until the high moon, avoiding Bridget.
It wasn’t that difficult. Aleesa monopolized him at breakfast, wanting to know everything about his den and his pack. She had so many questions about her daughter, Kirstin, and the wulvers Aleesa and Alaric had known. And all those who had come after, too, those she’d never had a chance to know.
After breakfast, Alaric took Bridget out on the horses for training, and while Griff had attempted avoiding that, too, he’d been roped into it both days. Uri needed the exercise, anyway. That’s what he told himself, as he found himself facing Bridget in her English-Scottish hybrid armor. Alaric was hellbent on using Griff as a practice dummy for his daughter, and while he’d refused, more than once, Bridget had managed to goad him into fighting.
The first time, he was a gentleman and he let her win—which wasn’t easy for him—and then she’d accused him of such. So the second time, he beat her soundly, and she’d accused him of cheating. Could he help it if the girl’s body was like a gory damned magnet he found himself drawn to? He hadn’t been cheating. He’d just been—distracted.
Before lunch, the women did their purification ritual at the sacred pool. Griff steered clear of that, and Alaric did, too. The older wulver took him out to set snares and check traps. They spent time talking about Griff’s father, Raife, and Raife and Darrow’s father, Garaith. Of course, they both knew that Garaith was only Raife’s father by name only. King Henry VII was Raife’s father by blood—the same blood that flowed through Griff’s veins.
But while his pack knew the truth, few people outside of Scotland’s borderlands, where the wulver den resided, knew that King Henry VII had once bed a wulver woman, let alone that his issue, a warrior who was half-man, half-wolf, led the last pack of wulvers.
But were they the last?
Alaric told him he wasn’t sure if their den was the last. The guardian Alaric had slain when Aleesa had first come to the Temple of Ardis and Asher had been a wulver, not a man. But he was not a wulver Alaric knew, and he hadn’t had a chance to ask the other warrior where he’d come from. And there was no priestess who resided here then. Aleesa had explained to her husband that she had been called to the temple by the dying high priestess—the wulver
He frowned. “But where’ll they sleep?”
“We’ve a room for guests.” She smiled as she passed him. “Do’na worry. Sleep well, red wulver.”
Griff grabbed her elbow and Bridget gasped. Her feet were still wet and she nearly slipped on the stone floor. Once again, he caught her.
“Will ye stay wit’ me, lass?” His eyes searched hers, his voice low and soft, gripping her upper arm. “Keep a man warm?”
“Yer not a man, yer a wulver. And… tis not m’job t’warm yer bed.” She glanced down at where he held onto her arm. His whole hand could encircle it. “If I wanted t’share it, ye’d know.”
“How would I know?” He let her go, their eyes still locked. He was smiling.
“’Cause I’d be in it.” She turned and went to the door, picking up his clothes and boots before opening it and glancing over her shoulder at him. “See ye at breakfast, red wulver. Have a g’nite.”
He gave a sigh as she started to close the door, calling out, “G’nite, Bridget.”
She stood outside his room for a moment, trying to catch her breath.
She stood there and fought with herself, fought with her own urges.
He’d asked her to come to his bed, and she’d been right to refuse him. She knew that much. It was the right thing to do, for the temple, for her role as both future high priestess and guardian. She’d made the right decision, and she knew both Alaric and Aleesa, who were bedding down at the other end of the long tunnel, would be proud of her.
So why did she feel so empty?
Chapter Five
Griff spent the next three days, until the high moon, avoiding Bridget.
It wasn’t that difficult. Aleesa monopolized him at breakfast, wanting to know everything about his den and his pack. She had so many questions about her daughter, Kirstin, and the wulvers Aleesa and Alaric had known. And all those who had come after, too, those she’d never had a chance to know.
After breakfast, Alaric took Bridget out on the horses for training, and while Griff had attempted avoiding that, too, he’d been roped into it both days. Uri needed the exercise, anyway. That’s what he told himself, as he found himself facing Bridget in her English-Scottish hybrid armor. Alaric was hellbent on using Griff as a practice dummy for his daughter, and while he’d refused, more than once, Bridget had managed to goad him into fighting.
The first time, he was a gentleman and he let her win—which wasn’t easy for him—and then she’d accused him of such. So the second time, he beat her soundly, and she’d accused him of cheating. Could he help it if the girl’s body was like a gory damned magnet he found himself drawn to? He hadn’t been cheating. He’d just been—distracted.
Before lunch, the women did their purification ritual at the sacred pool. Griff steered clear of that, and Alaric did, too. The older wulver took him out to set snares and check traps. They spent time talking about Griff’s father, Raife, and Raife and Darrow’s father, Garaith. Of course, they both knew that Garaith was only Raife’s father by name only. King Henry VII was Raife’s father by blood—the same blood that flowed through Griff’s veins.
But while his pack knew the truth, few people outside of Scotland’s borderlands, where the wulver den resided, knew that King Henry VII had once bed a wulver woman, let alone that his issue, a warrior who was half-man, half-wolf, led the last pack of wulvers.
But were they the last?
Alaric told him he wasn’t sure if their den was the last. The guardian Alaric had slain when Aleesa had first come to the Temple of Ardis and Asher had been a wulver, not a man. But he was not a wulver Alaric knew, and he hadn’t had a chance to ask the other warrior where he’d come from. And there was no priestess who resided here then. Aleesa had explained to her husband that she had been called to the temple by the dying high priestess—the wulver
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