Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 131364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
“Hah, it’s a gift of thanks,” Dahlia protested after a gulp of the fresh coffee. “My tiger’s smoke show of a friend? Guess who she went home with?” A wriggle of the eyebrows. “I made the introductions.” Another gulp. “Seriously, Adam, you should come out with us sometime.”
“I have and lived to tell the tale. Never again.”
While Dahlia dropped it, Adam could see the wing-second was worried about Adam’s current monk-like existence. All changelings needed tactile contact to remain stable; the more dominant the changeling, the more important the need.
Without touch, they turned aggressive, dangerous.
Affection was enough to fill that need in their young, but the older they got, the more the sexual side of their nature kicked in—but if a changeling didn’t want to go on the prowl, intimate skin privileges could be found within the clan. However, with WindHaven small in numbers compared to the larger packs across the border in California, Adam didn’t play within its walls.
He’d had a human lover in Raintree until eight months ago, when she’d moved to Brazil for work. Older than him by seven years, she was a widow who’d lost her husband too young and had no desire for anything beyond a warm and trusting friendship, which had suited Adam fine.
The truth was that he’d never been as carefree as many of his clanmates when it came to intimate skin privileges. He wanted what his parents had had. That wing-to-wing, side-by-side, endless-laughter, and forever-love kind of deal. A true mating of the heart and soul.
He’d never been interested in the casual, and Dahlia knew that. Only his best friend and second-in-command Jacques knew the rest of it, the painful reason behind Adam’s inability to commit to anyone, how his world had shattered in every way possible ten years ago.
The fact that Dahlia had brought up the subject at all…fuck.
Leaving her to continue on her way to breakfast, he changed course to swing by the infirmary. Naia looked up from where she was going over patient charts, all big dark eyes and dark hair against skin the shade of rich cream, her lips lush and her body a dramatic landscape of curves.
“Am I causing problems in the clan?” he asked bluntly. “Aggression, I mean.”
Naia was WindHaven’s healer. She didn’t ask him to expound on the subject. “No, but I’d say you were on the edge of it. I was planning to talk to you about it this week.” Rising from her desk, she walked over. “You’ll need to figure something out before you cross that line.”
Jaw tight, Adam was still chewing over her words when he walked into the otherwise silent garage. He’d just maneuvered a vehicle out of its bay when Malia came jogging in with Amir prowling beside her. She had her bookbag slung over her shoulder and an organizer clutched to her chest, her hair down but pulled back on one side with a glittery comb.
The rest of her was a cascade of color.
Tight jeans of vivid blue, a sunset-hued T-shirt over which she’d thrown a textured vest on which were sewn patches from all the places she’d traveled with her family, and long dangling earrings that she’d made herself of tiny shed feathers interwoven with turquoise beads.
She was a bright spark, their Mali.
“Ready?”
“Yep.” She turned to kiss Amir on the cheek, having to stand on tiptoe because she’d inherited Saoirse’s height rather than her father’s. “Bye, Dad. Your favorite child loves you!”
Amir chuckled as he shut the passenger door behind her, then leaned his arms on the window to talk to Adam. “You coming to the meeting this morning?”
“No. Pascal can give me the rundown when I’m back—got something to take care of.”
He drove out seconds later, his mind on the visitor who’d drawn his attention, the thought a niggling thorn in his mind. Adam wasn’t one to ignore his instincts. He’d check her out after he dropped Malia off at school.
Chapter 3
On the two counts of first-degree murder, we, the jury, find the defendant not guilty.
—Judgment in State v. Draycott (11 November 2073)
Prior to walking into the inn’s small front office, Eleri had pulled on the fine black gloves that she wore in all situations where she might come into contact with another sentient being. She could’ve chosen gloves in a shade closer to that of her pale brown skin tone, but that would defeat their secondary purpose: to act as a visual warning to others not to make contact.
The office was unattended.
After pressing the bell on the counter and hearing it ring within, she waited a good five minutes.
She pressed the bell again at that point, finally heard the sound of rushing footsteps. A small human woman with a round face devoid of wrinkles, her cheeks red and her silver hair cut in a neat bob, appeared from the door behind the counter. “Oh, you must be Eleri Dias! You’re here early just like you said!”