The shakes moved up Sasha’s neck, into his jaw. He swallowed, and it was hard to form words. “There are…a lot of things I would like to ask you. But I know you don’t like me very much.”
“Don’t take it personally. I don’t like anyone.”
“Except your mate.”
Sasha said it innocently – he still grappled with a strange joy because there weremated wolvesin the world – but Fulk growled all the same.
“I’m not challenging you,” Sasha said. “I don’t want to be your rival.” Soft, the shaking getting worse: “I’m glad for you.”
Fulk gave a lupine snort and tipped his head back, gaze narrow, blue, uncompromising. Grudgingly: “What would you ask?”
He really was feeling terrible, but hope flared to life inside him, a strength all its own. The questions came tumbling out like a flood. “When were you turned? Did you really turn Annabel yourself? Who was your vampire? How did you get here? How…” He exhaled with an unsteady laugh. “I’m sorry. I’ve never met another wolf before.”
“I can see that,” Fulk said mildly. He studied Sasha a moment. “I’m sorry.”
Sasha blinked. “What? Why?”
“I sold the book to Philippe.”
Sasha absorbed that information. Parsed it out. “Oh.”
