Henry frowned as he reached the house and searched for a hint that Ophelia had been moving around recently, though nothing in the yard or on the block pointed at her being the one who distracted him. He studied the house and held his breath; the light was on in her window. Maybe she’d sneaked out and left it on as a distraction. Maybe she met surreptitiously with the coyotes as part of some larger plan. Maybe it was all a trap.
He scowled and bounded onto the porch. He’d confirm she wasn’t in her room, then he’d wake up Evershaw and Deirdre for their help in hunting down the rogue witch.
He made his way up the stairs and around to the side of the house on the second floor where Ophelia slept, and ignored the wolf’s excitement at searching out the female in her den. His wolf side wanted to find her half-dressed and sleepy, safe and content. He’d offer to sleep at the foot of her bed if it helped her rest.
Henry didn’t let himself stop to consider what else might have kept the witch up so late at night, and threw open the door to her room with the full expectation that it would be empty and a new conspiracy would have been confirmed.
Instead, he found Ophelia in a pair of ratty pajama pants, a loose T-shirt, and with her hair unbound, a large wooden construct in her lap and static in the air. She froze, staring at him, and his skin prickled as he inhaled her intoxicating scent. Yarn tangled on the floor and Cricket batted lazily at a snarled mess, his tail lashing as Ophelia was distracted from petting him by Henry’s sudden appearance.
He stared down at her, trying to figure out what the hell she was doing, and sneezed as more magic tickled across his skin and into his brain. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Weaving,” she said, still staring at him in shock. “What are you… Why are you… Is something wrong?”
Cricket got up to rub against his leg, but Henry didn’t let the cat distract him. Ophelia’s hands were still on the yarn that threaded through the wooden lap loom, or whatever the hell it was called, as she stared at him. He hadn’t seen her hair loose in the week or so since they’d first crossed paths; it changed everything about her. She looked younger and more relaxed, like any other girl instead of a witch who’d been hunted by a mad sorcerer. The loose T-shirt had faded until the name of the band was unintelligible, but it looked soft to the touch and just begging to be cuddled in.
He tried to shake off the urge to find out what it would feel like to wrap her up in his arms, particularly since she wasn’t wearing a bra under the T-shirt and her breasts gently tested the fabric. When she adjusted how she sat on the floor, leaning back against the side of the bed, the shirt slid and her nipples grew visible and his mouth went dry with hunger.
He couldn’t look away from her. He’d been a fool to think her part of an evil conspiracy or that she’d be out roaming around in the middle of the night. His wolf wanted to make sure she spent the night safe and warm and protected from whatever had tried to distract him out in the city. Something had smelled like her out there, but it definitely wasn’t her. Maybe it was some other trick, some magical thing; he made a mental note to ask Deirdre about it later.
He jumped as a dozen fiery pinpricks dug into his calf, and stared down to find Cricket casually testing his claws against Henry’s leg. He shooed the cat away and in the moment he was distracted, Ophelia set the loom aside and crossed her arms over her chest. Henry clenched his jaw against a groan of disappointment as her breasts were hidden, then felt like a leering pervert.
Ophelia’s cheeks were decidedly pink as she glared at him. “What are you doing here? I was…busy.”
“I saw your light on,” he said. Because that was explanation enough. It was part of his job to make sure the pack was safe.
“And that gives you permission to throw open my door in the middle of the night and interrupt me?”
Henry struggled to find a response that would make sense to her, and found himself captivated as she turned her head and the gentle light defined the curve of her jaw and the long line of her throat as her hair moved. He ached to touch her shoulder, to work his fingers into her hair. All words deserted him and all he could do was look at her, struggling to find solid ground as the whole world unbalanced.
