Hour of the Lion (The Wild Hunt Legacy #1) by Cherise Sinclair Page B

chin, his fingers firm. Warm. ―Hold still. This is gonna hurt, baby.‖ He pressed the cold, wet paper towel against her cheekbone.
    ―Ouch,‖ she murmured.
    ―Listen,‖ he said, ―there—‖
    ―Move.‖ Calum nudged Alec over with his knee. He yanked a chair closer with one foot and seated himself before taking her hand. His gray eyes were almost black, his mouth tight. Muscles flexed under his white shirt—he was ready to wade into a fight, all right.
    ―I didn‘t mean—‖
    ―Shut up,‖ they said, almost in chorus. Calum held out a small bottle to Alec. ―Put iodine on that rag.‖
    ―Hey, no, wait.‖ Her grab for Alec‘s wrist was a little too late, too weak. He forced her hand down on her thigh and pressed the cloth to her face. It burned, napalm in a bottle. She‘d hated the shit since she was a kid. ―Jesus, I survived the fight and now you‘re trying to kill me,‖ she muttered. ―What kind of archaic medicine is this?‖
    Alec grinned, and his grip on her hand eased, turned to almost a caress. ―You‘re too tough to die, woman.‖
    A compliment? His words slid through her humiliation like the sun through fog. She glanced at Calum, just in time to see him dump half the bottle of iodine on her knuckles. She yelped.
    ―Shit! Fuck!‖
    Whups. Not a diplomatic way to talk to a boss. She bit down on her lip, ignored Alec‘s snigger. ―Um. Sorry.‖
    ―I do hope you refrain from that language when my daughter is present,‖ Calum said mildly.
    His eyes had returned to gray, and his lips twitched upward.
    She relaxed back into the chair with a whuff of relief. Calum used a finger to smear antibiotic ointment on her knuckles, and then handed the tube to Alec. They acted like she‘d been broken into pieces instead of barely dented.
    Both of them were intent on making sure she was okay. Nobody‘d ever done that before.
    Oh, in the Marines, a buddy would slap a field dressing on you. But when undercover, she handled her own injuries. Funny how she‘d gotten so used to the protocol: If you"re caught, you"re on your own. We won"t know you. No rescue, no aid.
    Alec grinned at her. ―Want me to kiss it and make it better?‖
    She snorted. But as she looked at them and saw the very real concern in their faces, something seemed to snap inside her. As a child, she‘d heard that if she swallowed a watermelon seed, one would grow in her stomach. She‘d spent a week, patting her belly, waiting…for nothing.
    But now, looking at Alec and Calum, she could feel something deep inside start to unfurl and grow.
    * * *
    The rain had stopped, and the crescent moon rode the clouds like an ancient drawing of Herne, the horned god of the hunt. Cold air flowing down the mountain slopes into town brought the scent of snow, of pine trees, of tiny damp glades and the deer that stepped silently through them.
    But tonight Alec felt no hunger to run the wild. Tonight, his hunger was for the young female quietly walking beside him. A female both beautiful and deadly.
    During the fight in the Wild Hunt, he‘d been terrified for her. Worse, he‘d almost lost control and shifted, something he hadn‘t done since a teenager. He glanced down at his small companion and shook his head. His fear for her had been sadly misplaced; he should have worried for her opponents.
    When Thorson had kicked at her, Vicki had actually grinned, her delight obvious. He‘d been shocked—hell, he was still shocked. Female shifters fought only for home or family and went straight for the throat or belly every time.
    What kind of female enjoyed brawling? And got herself in a deadly fight and still pulled her punches. Even as he‘d shoved his way through the customers to her, he‘d seen how she‘d moved her target to a jaw rather than the thorax and then softened a kick. She could have killed either of them.
    Alec grinned. Once he sobered up, Thorson, with his years of brawling, would know that too. Wouldn‘t that pull the old werecat‘s