Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 69734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Because the fact is, I do have feelings.
I cared deeply for him when he was thirteen. Maybe my wolf knew him on some level, even without the presence of his wolf. What I feel now is that caring tangled with a hurricane of dangerous desire. And the more concerned I feel for him, the more pressure I feel to flee. To leave Wolf Ridge before it’s too late. Before I’m locked into something with him that I can never be free of.
I look away as I unlock my ankles from behind his back and use my feet on his thighs to push him away. Out of my peripheral vision, I see his upper lip curl into a snarl, but he accepts my abrupt change of heart. He walks to the sink and washes up as I slide off the table. I clean up with a few tissues from the tissue box, which I put in my purse to dispose of in the toilet later. Leaving any evidence of our tryst in the classroom would be disastrous.
Asher picks up my panties and pockets them. He saunters over to my studio area and stands with his arms folded, taking in the painting I’m working on.
“When did you start this one?”
“In August.”
He looks over, brows jumping in surprise.
“What? It takes a long time to complete a painting this size.”
“You hadn’t seen my wolf in August.”
I blink, not understanding. Then I stare at the wolf on the canvas and gasp, my hand clapping over my mouth.
It is Asher.
Why did I not put that together? In addition to painting my wolf, I’ve been painting variations of this giant black wolf since my sophomore year of college.
Since Asher would have transitioned to his wolf form.
I sway on my feet.
Asher circles an arm around my waist and pulls me up against his firm body. “They’re all of us,” he murmurs with awe in his voice. I scan all the paintings, large and small, stacked against the walls or on easels to see what he sees.
Fate, how did I miss it? Every painting features either a giant black male wolf or a slender white she-wolf, both with green eyes. I thought of them as yin and yang. To me, they represented the male and female wolf aspects. Sometimes I painted them together. Mostly apart. Sometimes I painted my face superimposed with my wolf’s or with the wolf’s face over my chest area.
I never, ever dreamed I was painting a specific male.
I never attached a human face to Asher’s wolf. Never imagined what that particular male looked like in human form.
How utterly bizarre that I didn’t note their similarities the first time I saw Asher on the full moon run. Even when I caught his cedar and soap scent and suspected he was my mate, I didn’t make the connection. I’m so out of touch with my wolf nature, I missed all the clues Fate was dropping for me.
“So you suppressed your wolf at art school, and this is how she emerged.” Asher’s voice is a comforting rumble above my head.
I don’t want to lean back against his sturdy support because it feels too good. I don’t want to get used to something I don’t get to keep. My body doesn’t obey my wishes. I’m melting into him, drinking in how marvelous it feels to have the corded muscles of his forearm holding me up.
“Yes. She became my artistic muse.”
Asher releases me and walks closer to examine a 48 x 48-inch painting of my wolf standing in a mountain meadow surrounded by delicate gold Mexican poppies. I had this painting in my bedroom in the dorm-style apartment I shared with Andy and two other seniors last year. Having her close kept me from feeling like I would go crazy.
“She looks…” He tilts his head, as if he’s trying to read the mind of my wolf on the canvas. “I think she’s mad at you.”
A choked sort of laugh comes out of my mouth. “Mad?” I walk to his side.
“Don’t you see it?”
“Well…I would’ve said she looks wise. Or strong.” I, too, tilt my head and try to see her through Asher’s eyes.
“Maybe she is mad.”
“She looks bitter.”
“I might call it repressed.”
“The repression made her bitter.”
That gnawing guilt I have over suppressing my wolf comes to the surface. I elbow him. “Don’t judge.”
Asher picks me up and sits me atop the step ladder I use to paint the upper region of the canvas. I don’t see any of that resentment or rage he usually holds for me. Nor do I see the condemnation of my parents. His face is relaxed–his expression soft. When his hands come to rest lightly on the sides of my thighs, a trembling starts in the center of my being.
“It just seems like a…violence you enacted on yourself.”