Logan's PoV
I wake to the sound of breathing that isn't my own.
It's heavy, deliberate puffs of air against my cheek, hot enough to stir the hair by my temple. Then again, closer, like whoever— or whatever— it is is sniffing me. The third exhale tickles my neck so much I twitch and slap at the air.
My eyes fly open.
And I'm staring directly into a pair of molten-gold eyes set in a massive silver-furred snout.
"Sweet Goddess!" I jerk back, scrambling onto my elbows. My heart's galloping like a war drum.
The wolf blinks at me. The sheer size of him—shoulder nearly level with my chest even as he crouches low— screams danger. His fur shimmers faintly like liquid moonlight, each hair edged with an eerie glow. Those eyes glare at me like he's pissed that I'd even dare to be afraid and he's even more annoyed at my presence than I am wary of his.
Recognition is immediate.
"Fenrir?"
