Wolf Whisperer. Karen Whiddon
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that meant he was under her protection. Which meant, in theory, like her he couldn’t die unless by fire.
Therein lay the appeal of her kind to the Protectors. And to their mutual enemies.
So there was a distinct possibility he might live. But first, as a fresh wave of agonizing pain swept over him, he realized he’d have to go to hell and back.
Mac moaned, drawing Kelly’s weary gaze. Now that their attackers had vanished, her first responsibility was to make him as comfortable as she could. She needed to get him in out of the damp, chilly mist. Despite his being the enemy, her impulsive binding of them together meant she couldn’t abandon him now.
Her house was in ruins. The other explosion had taken out several of her dog runs, though it hadn’t damaged the main kennel building or—she hoped—hurt any of the dogs.
Luckily, she’d kept a small office inside the kennels where she frequently did paperwork on a battered computer. There, she had a futon that could double as a bed, a shower she used to bathe the dogs, a toilet and a fridge. Nothing fancy, but until her home was rebuilt, this would be where she’d have to live.
And where she’d take the Pack Protector while he recovered. It wouldn’t be easy, the first time recovering from a silver-bullet shot. She remembered her first time, back when she’d been a wee girl of twelve. No, this man would suffer greatly on his road to recovery. By the end of it, he’d probably wish he was dead.
Again she eyed him. Luckily for him, he’d passed out from the pain. Now, how to get him inside the kennel. While the adrenaline rush earlier had enabled Kelly to get him outside, she doubted she could replicate that feat again.
Yet she couldn’t simply leave him here in the rain.
“Hey, Tearlach.”
To her shock, Mac had raised his head and called for her, his voice weak but steady.
“Don’t call me that,” she chided. “Now more than ever, it’s important that you forget you ever heard that word.”
He didn’t ask why. She thought maybe now he understood. Then, to her amazement, he pushed himself up on his elbows.
“Help me up,” he said, his voice gaining strength.
“Do you think you can stand?” His resilience amazed her. Still, she’d be surprised if he managed to stand, never mind walk. “If you can, I’ll help you walk to the kennel. It’s warm and dry and there’s a place you can rest. And it should be safe. The dogs will alert us to any danger long before it reaches us.”
Jerking his head in a nod, he pushed up to his feet. Though she rushed over to offer her shoulder for support, he waved her away, staggering a few steps forward before halting. Though he was breathing hard and swaying slightly, he looked a far cry better than he had just five minutes before, which meant he was healing fast. Almost as quickly as her.
Honoring his strength, she kept back, though close enough to offer aid if he needed it. “Let me know if you need my help,” she said.
Squinting at her, he didn’t respond. Instead, he lurched another three or four steps toward the kennel, then rested. Though he held his shoulders up, he kept one hand pressed against the bandaged wound in his leg. From what she could tell, the makeshift tourniquet had been effective. Only a little blood seeped from under his hand to run down his wet and muscular leg.
He healed like a full-blooded shifter rather than a Halfling. Or, she reflected, maybe that was because she’d taken him under her protection.
As they made their way slowly toward the kennel, her dogs, still stunned from the explosion and gunshots, swirled around them, agitated and nervous. Though she was far from calm herself, she spoke soothingly to them, working at projecting a serene attitude, knowing it would help relax them.
Once inside, she dried him off as best she could, taking care to touch the still-healing wound gently. Though he must have hurt, his stony expression gave nothing away. As he watched her, his blue eyes were hooded.
Waiting for him to ask why she’d saved him—a question she didn’t know the answer to herself—she had to fight to keep from being all thumbs, which was not normal for her. She’d tended lots of wounded creatures in her time, though none of them had been so blatantly masculine, nor as beautiful.
When she’d finished her ministrations, he lay back on the futon and went to sleep. Kelly wrapped him in a soft blanket, attempting to make him as comfortable as she could.
Once Mac was taken care of, she rounded up the other dogs that still roamed outside, wanting to bring them in before full darkness fell. As soon as she had them all accounted for, blessedly unharmed, she returned with them to the kennel apartment where Mac still slept.
Peeking at the wound, she was pleased to see it had healed even more. As if it had been sutured, the jagged tear in his skin was beginning to close. His body had already brought itself back from the brink of death and was well on the road to healing, much faster and less painfully than she’d expected.
Suddenly exhausted, Kelly dropped into her office chair. Eyeing the handsome shifter, she knew she had one more task ahead of her. Once Mac recovered, she would have to explain that the gift she’d given him came with strings. By telling him that they were one, and by his acceptance, they were now bound together for life. Kelly was pretty darn sure he wouldn’t be happy about that. Hounds, she wasn’t entirely thrilled herself.
But what had she been supposed to do? Let him die in front of her? She who had trouble killing an in sect? So in an impulsive moment, she’d said the sacred words—only to protect him—and the thing was done.
Would she have regrets? Only time would tell.
And, she couldn’t help but wonder if he already knew. He’d been married to a Tearlach. Surely he and Maggie had undergone the ritual. Or had they? After all, Maggie had died and he had lived. Still, she’d never heard of a Tearlach marrying without performing the necessary binding. But could a shifter be bound to two women, even if one died? She didn’t know.
Again she eyed Mac. At the rate he was going, it shouldn’t take him more than a good night’s sleep to heal. For his sake, she hoped he’d spend most of that time unconscious. Less painful that way.
Chapter 3
As the afternoon drifted into evening, Kelly remained in her chair, watching him. She found herself tracing the lines of his rugged face with her gaze, pondering the strength of his profile and the breadth of his shoulders.
He’d been married to her cousin Maggie. Though Maggie was dead, that made him family. She’d sworn the oath with him, bound him to her, and he was hers now.
This feeling—it had to be desire. She’d read about it, heard songs about it, but until now, she hadn’t been touched by it. It felt like a small flame building inside her; she felt a longing to touch him, to press her lips to his bronze skin, for an unspeakable, unthinkable more.
Shaking herself back to her senses, she pushed to her feet. Perhaps her lonely exile was finally getting to her. She’d never met a man who affected her the way this one did. Of course, living out here in the wilds of Wyoming, she met few men, other than her neighboring ranchers. And they certainly didn’t make her want what she couldn’t have.
She reminded herself that he’d mentioned trading her sister for his children. Though she doubted he actually had her sister, he might know where she’d been taken. His kids were a different story.
Even if he brought Bonnie back, Kelly couldn’t guarantee the return of his twins. While she hadn’t heard anything about his kids being taken, it sort of made sense. Any child born of a Tearlach must be protected, and with their mother dead, her mate should have died also. That was the way of things. Once Maggie had died, the children had to be protected. Their gifts were too highly valued, too much of a temptation for someone merely after the prize a Tearlach’s gift could bring.
If