Two territorial males. One bathing chamber. A woman who would have given anything for thirty seconds of privacy to think.
Nicholas's eyes were glued on Guinevere.
She was sitting on the counter in a silk robe that was doing absolutely nothing to help the situation because it was short and wet at the hem and the counter was cold marble and her legs were bare and her hair was damp and she looked like a woman who had just been thoroughly handled by a man who was now standing between them wearing terrycloth and territorial fury.
His wolf was so close to the surface that the tendons in his neck were corded. Then he shook his head once. Then again. Harder. The motion of a man snapping himself out of a trance that his body had walked him into without permission. He blinked. His hands unclenched. The wolf receded by a degree that cost him visibly.
