Sentinels: Wolf Hunt. Doranna Durgin

be great if someone lets me know when you hear from him.”

      “You know,” Meghan said, her words drawn out with the pondering of it, “I’m thinking that it’s a good day for a dog show.”

      Marlee wondered at the relief she felt.

      Maybe not so complacent after all.

       Can’t be good.

      Dry, hot ground dusting close by his face, full of sharp desert scent. The sun beating on his chest, his legs…his shoulder grinding into hard, gritty caliche. Can’t be good.

      Could be hours before anyone found him here. Longer.

      He tried to consider the amulet, to consider Jet, to understand how the one was tied to the other, and to pull together what little he knew. She’d been with Gausto. Now she was on the run. She had answers that he needed.

      He couldn’t trust her for a moment.

      He had no idea what she really was.

      And he wished like hell she would get her ass back here so he could find out.

      But since she was running, and since no one would find him here, and since his Sentinels had to be warned that Gausto was making some sort of move…

      This time, he really did roll over.

      And found himself staring at a pair of black leather lace-ons, soft slipperlike shoes over sturdy, well-arched feet that would have been happier barefoot.

      “I found it,” Jet said. “Little adobe Beagles. Maybe.”

      He hadn’t heard her bike. He looked for it, dull and thick and slow to think.

      “I left it there,” she told him. “You would fall. So we walk.” She stepped back to look at him, hands on hips, head cocked…frowning. “Or I carry you.”

      And she did.

      Jet rubbed her feet. These shoes hadn’t been meant for walking alongside a desert road, and they definitely hadn’t been meant for carrying a man over her shoulders across that same terrain.

      Gausto’s men had thought her freakishly strong, like the Sentinels they hated so much. She thought herself no more than what was necessary to survive.

      And now she had no way to get inside that small adobe house, which was nothing like Gausto’s ostentatious residence. More welcoming; more lived-in. A human den. She took Nick through the side yard gate instead, trailing a hand over the fence coyote rollers and taking note of the small tricolored and red-patched hounds who gave her instant berth, circling at a distance with their noses lifted to scent the air—hanging ears, bright eyes, tentatively wagging tails, brows wrinkled in worry…but seeing her. Knowing her. Not daring to bark at her.

      She lowered him from her shoulder-carry into a patio lounger and stepped back to look around, finding the back door—steel security screening with a geometric design that couldn’t hide its stout purpose. Locked.

      No matter. He was in the shade. And there was water. Jet had already dumped her jacket and her helmet in the front drive; now, after a thoughtful glance at the dog water buckets, she stripped her shirt off, bundled it up, and dunked it.

      She carried it back to Nick Carter, letting it drip all over his face…letting it trickle into his mouth. The flush on his face highlighted the hard line of his cheek and the echo of it in his jaw; even in the shade, the strong light of the desert day brought out the silver scattered on his eyebrows, made the silver hoarfrost of his hair shine bright.

      She pulled his shirt up, became impatient with the inconvenience of buttons, and ripped it aside so she could sit on the edge of the lounger, spreading water over his chest. Goose bumps rose on his skin, tightening his nipples and raising the hair, more silver than black, that grew crisply across his chest.

      She thought, then, of their desert romp. She closed her eyes and felt it—the connection they’d forged out among the cactus and creosote, the wolf in them driving past human concerns and human interference. Deep and pure and as strong as any instinct…stronger than any rational understanding. It had resonated in her then; it tingled in her now.

      Jet shivered. She looked down at herself in surprise, at her own tight skin, and then out at the hot sunny yard. By no means was she cool enough to be chilled…and this feeling was far from it. No, this feeling was hot and vaguely uncomfortable and seeking—wanting. On its own, her wet hand drew down along her body, from collarbone past the thin material of her bra and across her stomach—hard and toned, and yet somehow softer than his.

      With no more thought than that, she trailed fingers down his torso, feeling the smoothness, the hard strength beneath…the texture of the crisp hair and distinct flutter of his skin beneath her touch. She lingered at his collarbone, following the curve to his shoulder and arm—so different from her own.

      She had examined her body often enough, those first days. Looking down at herself, or in the mirror Gausto provided. Never had it looked quite as it did now, simply for being in contrast with his. A sweeping curve of waist, a lean flare of hip; her muscles, while just as hard as his, ran sleeker beneath the skin. Her hair stayed fine and downy soft, nearly invisible in most places. Not at her crotch, which had surprised her at first. Not on her head.

      She frowned at her breasts, now—even beneath the one-piece hosiery bra, they looked different to her. Fuller, tighter, nipples distinct beneath silky material. They felt different—hot and heavy and aching. She crossed her arms, cupping herself with protective uncertainty. Trying to ease herself. Being held…

      Yes, she wanted that.

      And she wanted…

      She didn’t know.

      And, too, she did. She needed, she wanted, her body demanded. She felt hot in places she’d only considered with matter-of-fact practicality until this moment. She wanted to touch herself; she wanted to touch this man before her. She put a hand on his damp skin, above his waistband where his abdomen hollowed out as he breathed.

      For that instant, his breath stopped.

      She found him watching her.

      “I—” she said, and nothing else, because while she had plenty to say, she had no words to say it. How did one talk about this feeling, a sudden raging howl within her? How it stammered through her chest and wrapped around her heart, or how looking at him, human body with wolf’s soul, made her want to laugh and cry all at once?

      He still struggled with himself, his skin twitching beneath her touch, his gaze ever so faintly confused.

      “I—” she said, and ran out of words all over again, even if her hand still reached.

      Nick’s hand shot out to capture her wrist. “Jet,” he said, from between gritted teeth.

      But oh, she wanted. She searched his gaze, looking for understanding—looking for the clues to this world, to the way things should be. And she knew what she saw there. Also wanting. “You, too,” she told him, in case he hadn’t known it. She drew the back of her knuckles lightly across the hot skin of his cheek, ever watching his eye. “Still, you are not well.”

      He grasped her wrist again, more gently this time. He bit gently at the knuckles that had touched him, and then simply held her hand against his chest, trapped and still and as gentle as he might hold a living bird.

      “Jet,” he said, full of wonderment. “Who are you?”

      How could she explain such a thing? How could she truly explain what she’d done for Gausto—done to Nick? She tried to tug away; that gentle grip turned insistent. She tipped her head ever so slightly, exposing her neck. “He said you would not be hurt,” she told him, unable to hide the anger. “He told me he wanted to talk to you.”