The Love of a Werewolf
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So he sat there, well aware that he looked like an idiot, until Jackson turned back around.
“The wolves here usually clean themselves as humans.” Wren couldn’t figure it out. No human ever referred to a wolf as human, even when their form was an almost identical copy to a humans. “Get in.”
He’d braced himself for the cold. Braced himself, even though he could see the steam. Braced himself for a cruel trick. Then his paw touched the water and warmth, blessed warmth. Not the unbearable heat of the sun on a too-hot day at that market place. Not the stinging burn of a lit cigarette being pushed against him. A comforting, embracing warmth that surrounded him and comforted the sore bones, muscles,
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