First Touch Part 2

My hand shot out to steady her before conscious thought could intervene, fingers closing around her elbow with perhaps more force than strictly necessary. The contact sent electricity racing up my arm—her warmth, her pulse, the way she fit perfectly against my palm as if she'd been designed for my touch.

Careful, the rational part of my mind warned. She's not a doll to be positioned at will.

But the wolf was purring with satisfaction at the way she leaned into my support, at the trust implicit in letting me steady her when she was vulnerable. At the simple rightness of touching her, holding her, being what she needed in that moment.

"Easy," I murmured, the word coming out lower than I'd intended. "The stairs can be treacherous when you're tired."

She looked up at me then, and I saw something flicker in her dark eyes that made my breath catch. Not fear, not entirely. Something that might have been awareness, recognition of the current that ran between us whenever we touched.

She feels it too, I realized with a surge of possessive satisfaction. Whatever this is, she's not immune to it.

"I'm fine," she said, but she didn't pull away from my grip. If anything, she seemed to settle more firmly against my hand, as if my touch was an anchor in a world that had become suddenly uncertain.

Good girl, the wolf approved. Accept the help. Accept the protection. Accept that you belong with us.

"Of course you are," I agreed, though my hand remained exactly where it was. "But there's no shame in accepting assistance when it's offered."

When it's offered. As if she had any choice in the matter. As if I would let her fall, let her struggle, let her face any difficulty alone when I was perfectly capable of providing whatever support she needed.

The thought was possessive to the point of madness, but I found I didn't care. She was here now, within reach, real and warm and infinitely precious. The idea of her suffering even minor discomfort when I could prevent it was unacceptable.

Mine to protect, the wolf growled. Mine to care for. Mine to claim.

I guided her up the remaining steps with careful attention, my hand never leaving her arm, hyperaware of every shift in her breathing, every flutter of her pulse beneath my fingers. She was exhausted—the journey through the forest, the stress of leaving everything she'd ever known, the emotional weight of her family's situation. All of it was taking its toll.

She needs rest, I told myself. Food, comfort, time to adjust to her new circumstances.

But even as the rational thoughts formed, darker impulses were stirring. She was tired, vulnerable, dependent on my goodwill for her basic needs. The wolf recognized opportunity when it saw it, understood that this was the perfect time to establish dominance, to make clear who was in control of this arrangement.

No, I forced the thought away. Not like that. When she comes to me, it will be because she chooses to, not because I've manipulated her into submission.

But the wolf was less concerned with ethics than results. It had waited twenty-seven years for its mate, and patience was wearing thin.

The second-floor landing opened onto a long corridor lined with portraits of my ancestors—generations of MacAllisters who'd ruled this domain with varying degrees of wisdom and ruthlessness. Catherine's gaze swept over them with obvious curiosity, though I caught the way she shivered slightly when her eyes lingered on certain faces.

They can sense what she is, I realized. Even in paint and memory, they recognize the one who might break the curse.

The thought sent a chill down my spine. If the dead were taking notice, if the magic that bound this place was responding to her presence, then we were already in deeper waters than I'd anticipated.

"Your family?" she asked, nodding toward the portraits.

"Some of them," I confirmed. "The ones who were... significant enough to warrant preservation."

Significant. Such a careful word for the warriors, sorcerers, and occasional madmen who'd shaped this bloodline over the centuries. But Catherine didn't need to know about the darker aspects of MacAllister history.

Not yet.

"You look like him," she said, stopping before a portrait that showed a man with my coloring but harder features. "Your father?"

My great-great-grandfather, I thought. Painted in 1743, three years before he died defending these lands from English raiders.

"An ancestor," I said instead. "The resemblance runs strong in our line."

Our line. The phrase caught in my throat, heavy with implications I wasn't ready to voice. Because if the prophecy proved true, if the bond I felt forming between us was real, then she would become part of that line. Would bear the MacAllister name, share the MacAllister legacy.

Would carry MacAllister children.

The thought hit me like a physical blow, sending heat coursing through my veins that had nothing to do with simple desire and everything to do with primal need. The wolf wanted pups, wanted to fill her with our young, wanted to bind her to this place and this bloodline in the most permanent way possible.

Control, I reminded myself desperately. She's been here less than an hour. These thoughts are madness.

But madness felt increasingly relative when she was standing so close I could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, when her scent was making rational thought nearly impossible, when every instinct I possessed was screaming that she was meant to be mine.