Curse of the Wolves
Blakely slipped through my fingers, and while every inch of me wanted nothing more than to hold on—to burrow my claws into her gown, into her very soul, so that she could never, ever leave me—I could not.
Much too soon, Rosalind returned to my arms, her hair once again golden and eyes a churning emerald.
“You seem distracted, God of Wolves.” She purred as we swayed, “Don’t tell me you’re possessive of your little blue-haired pet.”
I dragged my eyes down her face, past lips that were now a different shade than they’d once been, to the amulet circling her throat. Dangling from a silver chain was a stone.
A stone so bright and blue.
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