Luck of the Wolf. Susan Krinard

advisable for a young woman to be seen walking the streets in a state of complete undress. You will pose as a dog until we get home. As for me—” He examined himself and made a sound of disgust. “I will doubtless be considered just another inebriate emerging from a fight in some den of iniquity.” He made a loop out of the rope. “Come here.”

      The freedom she had claimed for so short a time, the warm rush of victory, could not be taken from her so easily. She laid her ears flat and bristled.

      Cort sighed. “If you knew how much trouble you have caused.” He dropped the rope. “Stay close to me. If you stray more than an inch—”

      He left the rest of the threat unspoken, but Aria heard the real anger in his voice, in the flat cadence of his words and the slight but noticeable change in his accent. She realized that she had seen him annoyed, even short-tempered, but never angry. Never so furious. Not with her.

      Lowering her head, she crept toward him. He spun around and strode out of the alley, pausing once to study the ground.

      “Someone seems to have availed themselves of my best pair of shoes,” he said.

      With a grimace, he took a handful of Aria’s thick ruff in his fist and began walking. The feel of his hand in her fur was not in the least uncomfortable. In fact, it felt warm and strong and wonderful.

      She realized he hadn’t been angry with her just because she had disobeyed him and taken a stupid risk. He was upset because he had been afraid for her. He had always claimed to care what happened to her, but now she was certain he had really meant it. He must have had a reason not to tell her who she was.

      They were back at the house in five minutes. Cort let her go when they were safely in the hallway, and opened the door to their rooms. She darted inside, shook out her fur and Changed.

      Something in Cort’s expression made her rush to find the hated dress. She put it on in the bedroom and came out again.

      Cort was hunched in one of the chairs by the table, his elbows resting on his knees, staring at the carpet.

      “You could have been hurt,” he said, not looking at her. “You do understand that?”