I didn’t want to boast, but my banrigh was fair to useless after our unexpected heat mating.
The moment I released her from my bite, Tara slumped forward into my arms, head lolling to the side even though I was still very much embedded inside her. And so, it was left to me to position us both on the floor beneath a fleece throw blanket I took off the back of Iain’s sofa.
Tara didn’t look nearly as put together now, I noted as I watched her sleep. A sheen of sweat plastered her straight brown hair against her face. And though she’d somehow managed not to smudge her lipstick, her mouth gaped open instead of wearing its usual “butter would grow cold in my mouth” tough-lass smirk.
Her core, however, was still hard at work. Despite her unconscious state, her sex was a contracting fist around my knot. I had to pause my study of her when a second orgasm rippled up my back.
With a low groan, I released into her soft body a second time, resisting the powerful urge to bite her again.
I didn’t want to wake her. My da had given me the talk not long after I reached puberty. And he’d told me she-wolves needed to rest during this process. A good male was never to disturb a heated she-wolf’s sleep.
And I wanted to be a good male to Tara.
So, despite what her core was doing to me, I forced myself to stay still until I finally—mercifully—unknotted. At which point I gathered her gently into my arms and carried her to the guest room Tara had taken as her own.
I carefully placed her on the bed and pulled the pale pink duvet over her sleeping figure.
Pink. It definitely didn’t fit in with the rest of the penthouse’s gray, black, and chrome color scheme. I was willing to bet Tara brought it over from her own flat when she moved here.
Tara seemed to like bright colors. I recalled the bright yellow heels she’d been wearing when I’d found her and Milly breaking into Iain’s house and escorted them back to the castle with my great-great-great-great grandfather’s rifle in hand.
And I’d felt her wolf staring just as hard at me as my wolf was staring at her.
But then Tara had punched me despite our wolves’ mutual interest. Which I understood, I suppose.
That was another lesson my father had taught me: she-wolves were often completely unaware of what their wolves wanted—at least not until they went into heat.
Which would have been fine if Tara were like all the other she-wolves I’d encountered in Scotland, or even like most human women. As pretty-with-heels-to-match as Tara dressed, you’d think she would have appreciated the attentions of a rich Scottish king like myself.
However, unlike me, Tara got past our first encounter easily enough.
I hadn’t been with another female, human or she-wolf, since our fateful first meeting. But Alban reported Tara’d gone about her life, business as usual. Working, partying, shopping—enjoying her life as I hadn’t been able to enjoy mine. Not since my wolf laid eyes on her and rendered me incapable of even flirting with another female.
I flinched as I thought about that time in the small dell. My attempt to flirt with her had gone abominably. Tara took every word out of my mouth as either an offense or an attempt to manipulate her. A bug would have had better luck trying to escape a Venus flytrap than I had of convincing her of my sincerity.
I’d almost lost hope during that particular interaction.
But luckily for me, our wolves took the wheel. Which meant I’d not only keep my crown, but I got the girl, too. It was all I could do not to climb under the pink duvet with her.
But I had business to attend to before I would let myself curl up with the lovely she-wolf who, by some miracle, was finally mine.
I made my way into the living room, closing her bedroom door softly behind me, and picked through the small pile of clothing Tara had torn off me during her heat. Ah, there it was…
The leather pouch’s strap hadn’t managed to survive our frenzy, but the flip phone Iain was always nagging me to update was still tucked safely inside.
I reached for it … and almost dropped it when it went off in my hand.
I frowned, recognizing the Italian country code. It was my mother. Again.
Ever since she and Iain made up last summer, she’d begun leaving me weekly voicemails in an obvious attempt to reconnect.
Not a chance in hell, Valentina.
Iain might be so blinded by happiness that he was easily able to forgive and forget. But I was the king of a village that held grudges for centuries.
Hell, the pack still hadn’t forgiven the Irish wolves for what their ancestors did back in 1503. So, it wasn’t bloody likely I’d forgive my mother anytime soon for leaving my da—and our kingdom—in shambles.
Without giving it another thought, I quickly depressed the wee “call deny” button on the side of the phone, then flipped it open to make some calls of my own.