Free Beauty and the Werewolf (Entangled Covet) (San Francisco Wolf Pack) by Kristin Miller Page B

from her vantage point at the back of the room. He was muscular, but lean. Undeniably strong.
    Although he was a jerk for leaving her—twice—and really freaking stupid to put himself in this position, he was striking in wolf form. Not that she’d ever tell him that.
    “You can’t die, MacGrath,” she said, adding more pressure to the wound. “I’m not finished bothering you yet.”
    At her words, Jack coughed and hacked up a bunch of blood on the concrete.
    Thank God, he was alive.
    With a sigh, she cradled his big head in her hands. “You’re going to be all right.” She swore. “Can you hear me? Just find the energy to shift back.”
    He opened his eyes and blinked up at her. There was a tenderness in his wide wolf eyes that tugged at her heart. A vulnerability that weaseled its way into her chest and squeezed.
    “You’re a git,” she said, going warm and tingly all over. “I just want you to know that before I save your life.”
    And then his head went limp in her hands.

Chapter Eight
    J ack clawed his way out of the darkness. Barely. It was Isabelle’s scent that finally pulled him through. All through the night, she surrounded him. He tried to rouse enough to talk and ask her to stay, but couldn’t muster the strength.
    It wasn’t until sunlight pierced his eyelids that he finally awoke.
    Feeling like he’d been beaten with a baseball bat, Jack used all his strength to move his head around over the pillow. The curtains to his room were wide open, letting in the full glare of the morning sun. Isabelle had curled up in the chair beside his bed, her head dropped forward and her eyes closed. She’d changed into a bulky black sweater, black leggings, and hot-pink slippers that looked like mops.
    Where the hell did she find slippers like that? Nineteen ninety-five?
    A black duffel bag slouched against the side of her chair, and a sketchbook rested in her lap, flipped to a page with a pencil image on it. Reaching over, Jack slid the book off her lap and propped it up on his knees. He’d just started flipping when she snatched the sketchbook out of his hand and closed it.
    “Aren’t you a nosy one,” she said with a yawn. “You must be feeling better.”
    “I didn’t know you sketched.”
    “It’s a hobby.” Her eyes shifted to the sketchpad, and then back to him. “A way to keep my hands busy when I’m bored.”
    Sighing, he rested his head back against the pillows. “You’re bored, yet you’re still here.”
    “I am.”
    Chills scattered over his skin at her words.
    “I couldn’t leave until I knew you were going to come out of this.” She ran her fingers through her hair, and then let the silky-soft layers fall around her face. Sunlight hit her from behind, creating a soft halo of gold around her head. “Despite what you may think, I’m not totally heartless.”
    Rising off the chair, she leaned over the bed and touched his forehead. He flinched at first, until he realized she was checking a bandage there. Her touch was gentle—the most soothing caress he’d ever felt in his life. It was as if the warmth in her hand bloomed through his entire body.
    “I never thought you were heartless.” He eyed her carefully as she tended to him. “A horrible driver? Yes. Absolutely.”
    Dabbing a cloth in a bowl beside the bed, Isabelle pulled back the sheet and touched it to his side. “I was driving fast, but in control. I’m not a bad driver.”
    “The fountain in my front yard begs to differ.”
    She squeaked in shock. “I was distracted by the—you know what? I’m not hashing this out again. I already told you I’ll pay to replace your Monument of Manhood.”
    Hissing, he recoiled from the cold as it dampened his skin. It struck him that she was comfortable tending to him—had she done it all night? From the recesses of his mind, the memory of her touch skated forward.
    She’d been here. All night. Caring for him when he was hurt.
    For someone who claimed to loathe him, nursing