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“This was all I ever wanted. To be close to you, even with you knowing what I am.”
Faran looked down into her face, his human eyes as impassive as the wolf’s had been.
Lexie’s hands found his chest, bringing back a flood of sensory reminders. Suddenly she felt flushed and aching with memory. Her first thought was to push him away, but the crack in his voice stopped her. Her heart was pounding so hard she felt breathless. “I’m sorry.”
Her hands slid down his shirt, feeling the quivering muscles beneath. He was holding himself in check so hard, it felt as if he might explode.
And then her hand found hot, sticky wetness. She gasped. “Faran, you’re bleeding.”
He exhaled, his breath warm against her cheek. “That wasn’t what you said in my fantasy of this moment.”
SHARON ASHWOOD is a novelist, desk jockey and enthusiast for the weird and spooky. She has an English literature degree but works as a finance geek. Interests include growing her to-be-read pile and playing with the toy graveyard on her desk. Sharon is the winner of the 2011 RITA® Award for Paranormal Romance. She lives in the Pacific Northwest and is owned by the Demon Lord of Kitty Badness.
Possessed
by a Wolf
Sharon Ashwood
To my Grandma, who taught me the joys of the kitchen (and the occasional tall tale).
Follow love and it will flee,
Flee love and it will follow thee.
—English proverb, 16th century
* * *
The Royal Family of the Kingdom of Marcari
King Renault
Dowager Queen Sophia
Princess Amelie
* * *
The Royal Family of the Kingdom of Vidon
King Targon
Crown Prince Kyle
Prince Leopold
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
There are very few monsters who warrant the fear we have of them.
—Andre Gide
Something cracked, a snapping sound that shot up Lexie Haven’s spine with an icy, instinctive foreboding.
She looked up from her Nikon, still absorbed in photographing the wedding ring on its black velvet pillow. Her concentration had been absolute, and it took a moment to come back to reality and wonder what had disturbed her. Curious, she glanced around the room, but the portable lights she’d rigged up sank everything and everyone else into darkness. The night outside turned the floor-to-ceiling windows into mirrors. She was far away, but could see herself move—a figure in an emerald silk tunic and slacks, her pale face framed by a hip-length tumble of fiery hair. And then someone moved, blotting out her reflection.
“What was that?” she said to no one in particular. No one replied. She looked around, almost ready to dismiss the noise from her mind. She had work to do.
The dim room crowded with party guests made it next to impossible to take good photographs, but royalty paid well. In return, Lexie took plenty of shots of the attendees and their bling, and that included the celebrated wedding band. Although not every palace official wanted a photographer at the party, Lexie was the compromise choice between no coverage and a tabloid free-for-all. Hers would be the first photographs to hit the press. The royal couple had unveiled the ring only half an hour ago.
Which was why Lexie was standing beside the marble fountain, camera pointed at the display case where the ring was being shown. For Lexie’s convenience, the case’s glass top had been removed and the security alarms switched off. Nevertheless, security guards stood to either side of the case. Until that moment they’d been polite yet bored, but at the cracking sound they stiffened like dogs catching a scent.
Other people must have heard the noise, as well. Voices rose above the splashing of the central fountain, no longer the polite murmur of ambassadors and celebrities deemed worthy to visit the Palace of Marcari. The hundred-odd A-list guests were now just ordinary people, shrill and afraid. Only the classical pianist carried on as usual from his Steinway in the corner, but then musicians were trained to keep going no matter what.
Another cracking noise came, sharper this time. A woman screamed—a short, horrified yelp of surprise. Lexie switched off the portable lights, bringing the rest of the room into better view, and stopped cold. The three south walls of the octagonal room were almost all glass, giving a view of the gardens. A spiderweb of fractures radiated across the center