Free Deep Magic by Joy Nash Page A

and picked it up. “This one, I made for myself.”
    She bit her lip again. He nearly groaned out loud. “Is … is it … me?” she asked.
    “It might be. Then again, it could be my ancestors’
lare.”
    “I do not know that word.”
    “The
lares
are Roman guardian spirits. My full name is Marcus Ulpius Aquila. In Rome, the second of a man’s three names comes to him from his ancestors. Mine is especially ancient. Ulpius. In the oldest language of Latium, it means wolf.”
    “The
wolf
is the guardian of your clan?” Her shock was palpable.
    “Yes.” Marcus ran his thumb over the curve of the silver wolf’s back, then set the figure on the worktable between a sheet of papyrus and an open wax tablet. “But you’re right—I would be lying if I said I was thinking of my forefathers when I fashioned this figurine. I thought only of you. As I have every night since I carried you out of that cave.”
    Distress flashed in her eyes. Distress, and something more. His body tightened. He felt a predator’s energy gather inside him, as if the spirit of the wolf his forefathers had worshipped had come to life in his belly.
    “I have thought of ye as well,” she said in a rush. “I’ve long wanted to thank ye for saving me. When I woke from Blodwen’s spell, ye seemed like a dream scattered by the dawn.”
    “No. No dream.”
    “I also wondered … what was it like for ye, watching me change? Ye are the only one who has ever seen it. I cannot help thinking it was horrible.”
    “I won’t insult you by pretending it wasn’t a shock. But horrible? No. That’s not the word I would use.”
    Her laugh was bitter. “What, then? Repulsive? Perverted? An abomination?”
    He caught her arm and waited until she looked at him. “It was none of those things.” His voice sounded raw to his own ears. “Startling, yes, even though Rhys had told me you were trapped in the form of a wolf.”
    His gaze drifted to her lower lip, red and a little swollen where she’d bitten it.
Gods.
Her eyes were so innocent, so uncertain. And he was so hard. How could she not know how her nearness affected him?
    His fingers pressed more deeply into her upper arm. He had to be hurting her, but she didn’t try to pull away. “The experience was far from repulsive, I assure you.”
    The doubt and shame didn’t leave her eyes. He was gripped by a visceral need to banish it. And so he lowered his head, intending to kiss her, just to prove his words were true.
    He moved swiftly, sensing that if she guessed what he planned, she’d push him away. When his lips met hers, she stiffened in surprise, drinking in his breath with a soft gasp. On the next heartbeat, her body went soft.
    Marcus’s head spun, as if he’d drunk a pitcher of unwatered wine, too quickly. He watched as if outside himself as his lips brushed over hers. Fire burned in his veins; a savageness almost wholly unknown to him screamed at him to take her, mark her as
his,
whether she was willing to accept such intimacy or not. But violence was not his way. In truth, he abhorred it. His muscles went rigid as he fought to stay in control. She belonged to another man—he shouldn’t even have touched her. But now that he had, he couldn’t bring himself to let her go.
    He kissed her again, suckling and nipping her lower lip. She tasted of wild things—heather and honey, and the wind on the moor. He cupped her cheek; he marveled at the softness of her skin under his callused fingers. His tongue teased the ragged terrain of her lower lip. He ran a hand over her hair, wishing fervently it weren’t bound in a braid. He wanted it loose and flowing.
    She trembled under his touch. Not from fear. Or anger. He was certain of that much, at least. The knowledge emboldened him. He pushed aside all thoughts of her betrothed. If the man hadn’t been able to keep her by his side, he did not deserve her.
    He pressed his thumb to her chin, parting her lips so he could slip inside the slick hot