Was she really going to push him on this? Was she ready to know whatever it was he didn’t want to tell her?
Steadily, she said, “I think you’d better tell me all of it.”
He flattened a hand at the small of her back. “I don’t want to.”
Warmth from his palm spread through her muscles. Even now, his touch gave her a solid sense of comfort. “I know you don’t, but I think you’d better anyway.”
The bed creaked as he sat too. “I’m a lycanthrope, Sidonie. I’m one of the Queen’s Hounds.”
Lycanthrope. She mulled it over. Where had she heard that word before? She had read about it recently, in one of the London daily newspapers.
Tilting her head at the large shadow of the man beside her, she asked, “You’re a werewolf?”
“Yes, or at least a certain type of one.” His reply was calm, which somehow made the outlandish words easier to hear. “The Hounds don’t lose control when there’s a full moon, and when we change, we retain our intelligence. We have vastly expanded lifespans, and we don’t go into a mindless frenzy. And we can telepathize. I think that might have something to do with the fact that we’re made from the Athame—or at least I was made from the Athame. When she orders me to, I make the others.”
Without his body radiating heat against hers, the world felt cold and less vital. Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself. “You make other lycanthropes. The other Hounds.”
“Yes.”
She heard the stress in her breathing and tried to correct it. “You make them by … how? Do you bite them?”
“When I’m in my lycanthrope form, yes,” he said again. His hand withdrew from her back.
Then it clicked. That was what she had read—the article in the newspaper had focused on treating lycanthropy the disease. A peculiarly British problem, there were other lycanthrope clans scattered throughout the world, but most of the population lived in the UK.
Like vampirism, lycanthropy was incurable. Unlike vampirism, if a person who had been bitten got treatment quickly enough, they didn’t have to turn.
She rubbed her face. “We’ve kissed?”
Rather deeply. Erotically, even.
She didn’t want to feel betrayal. She believed he would not do anything to hurt her. But still, she needed to hear the words.
“Kissing or having sex isn’t an issue, as long as there isn’t any bloodplay,” he said gently. “Childbirth is risky. Conception isn’t a problem, but often the mother passes on the disease to her baby anyway if she gives birth naturally. Most lycanthropes who want to be mothers choose in vitro fertilization and a surrogate. I would never expose you to this disease. Lycanthropy is only passed to humans through a blood wound. If you had to stab me, I would insist you wear protective gear so there was no chance of you risking infection. But make no mistake about this, Sidonie. I am a monster, not a man.”
No. No.
She had already started shaking her head before those last words had fully sunk in. “Don’t denigrate yourself like that,” she said. “The two things are not mutually exclusive. You might be a lycanthrope, but you are also a man.”
After a moment, he said softly, “Many people don’t see us that way.”
“I see you that way.”
Reaching out, she took his hand and sat cradling it in her lap. A fine, almost undetectable tremor was running through him. This was hard for him. She stroked his fingers as they sat quietly. The silence gave them both a chance to recover from what he had told her.
“Thank you for telling me,” she murmured. “I’m glad you did. Now, is this it? Is this the worst of what you’ve got to tell me?”
“No.”
“Are you going to tell me about it now?”
“No.”
He said it so calmly. How could he say that so calmly?
She wasn’t calm, at least not inside. She was rattled again, and she worked hard to hide it.
She had fully expected him to say yes. Because what could be worse than telling someone you were a werewolf? Everything else should have gone downhill at that point.
What could be that bad?
“You know we’re fucked if Isabeau chooses to interrogate me again,” she said in a conversational tone. Look at me! she thought. I sound so calm and rational. Those acting classes really paid off!
“I know,” he said. “I’ve told you enough that she can identify me from what you know.”
She gripped his fingers hard. So, the reason why he wasn’t telling her the rest wasn’t because of Isabeau. It was because of her. It was something else he didn’t want her to know. Could it possibly have something to do with why Robin was so afraid of him?
“Just when I was coping with the idea that I’d necked with a werewolf,” she muttered. “Just when I was beginning to flirt with the idea of possibly … possibly inviting sex with a werewolf. I’m trying to imagine how I would tell this story to my best friend. I think it would go something like this: See, I’ve never seen him in daylight. He’s just this werewolf guy, I don’t know his name. Damn, he’s got some really heavy-duty layers. And do you know what she would say? She would say, Run, Sid. Run very fast and far.”
Beside her, he had stiffened. Very quietly, he said, “Sex?”
Emphatically, she took his hand and deposited it in his lap. “I appreciate you, and I care about you—probably too much for my own good. I have a huge amount of sympathy for your situation, and I will gratefully take your help with one more battle spell tomorrow evening. But other than that, either show me your face and tell me your name, or get the fuck out of my room.”
He laughed under his breath. It sounded angry. “You don’t pull any punches when you get going, do you?”
“No, I don’t.” Wanting to get some distance, she slid to sit at the head of the bed, as far from him as she could get.
He was going to leave. She knew it. His secrets mattered too much to him. It made her heart hurt.
Then the room flared to golden light as the candle’s wick burst into flame. She stared at it for a split second. The flame burned unnaturally high, a good foot in length.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the tall, broad-shouldered man beside her rise off the bed. He came around to go down on one knee in front of her, and braced his hands on the bed on either side of her thighs.
She stared, eyes wide, hungrily soaking in every detail about him.
He was deeply tanned, and he had chestnut-colored hair, a strong-boned, intelligent face, and brilliant hazel eyes. Slight lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes and bracketed his unsmiling mouth.
He looked like he was thirty-seven. There was no sign of his advanced age, except, perhaps, for the bottomless, disciplined composure in those brilliant eyes.
Her gaze flitted everywhere at once, noticing other details, like taking an instant snapshot of the moment. He wore a plain black shirt and trousers, the sleeves rolled up past muscled forearms sprinkled with the same dark chestnut hair. Although the cut of the cloth was simple and sturdy, rather than stylish, it emphasized the lean, muscular power of his body.
He was gorgeous.
“My name is Morgan,” he told her in his deep, pleasant voice. “I’m called Morgan le Fae, and it’s not meant as a compliment. I abandoned my king and let his courtiers be killed, and caused his kingdom to fall. I’m known as a traitor and a murderer, and I’m an instant pariah in virtually any demesne I choose to enter.”
Tears sprang to her eyes as she listened. Impulsively, she placed both her hands over his mouth. “Stop.”
But he didn’t stop. Instead, he switched to telepathy, and as his steady hazel gaze met hers, he told her in the same pleasant, even voice, There is no such thing as normal in my life. I am eternally at the Queen’s beck and call—I kill for her, I lie for her, I assassinate heads of state and destroy governments.
Stop, she pleaded, stroking his face.
Gently, he folded his hands around hers and kissed each one. If she wants a land scorched, I will do it and seed it with poison so nothing else will grow. If she wants me to sleep at the foot of her bed, to guard her through the night while she dallies with her lovers, I will do it. When she orders me to create more Hounds, I hunt down experienced soldiers to attack. Once they’re transformed, I force them to obey her orders. I built her an army of monsters and command it. If you become the Queen’s enemy, I am your worst nightmare. If she tells me to do a thing, I will not stop, ever, until it is done.