Exhaustion caused Julian to stumble. He righted himself, shook his head to make the blinking black lights in front of his eyes go away, and tried to focus.
“Angry,” he muttered. “I am so angry.”
But he wasn’t. He could barely work up the energy to stand. He wasn’t certain he could bring forth enough anger to help.
Julian’s powers were a mystery. He believed they had come with his shape-shifting since he’d never been magic before, but none of his wolves was so gifted. He had not discovered any limits to what he could do beyond an inability to heal humans. The only thing that saved them from death was his bite.
Julian glanced again at the wall where a stack of wood should be, then at the empty box where nonperishable food should rest and managed a stir of fury.
“Good,” he said. “More.”
Even if he accessed the rage necessary to perform magic, he didn’t have enough energy left to heal Alex and start a fire from nothing.
What should he do? He couldn’t decide.
Which was not like him. He was the alpha. Decisions were his business. Of course he could never remember being this depleted and alone in all his lifetimes.
Didn’t it just figure that she was at the heart of it?
“Okay,” he said. Talking out loud seemed to make him feel more awake, more focused. “If you build a fire, she’ll only bleed worse once she’s warm.”
She wouldn’t die, true, but what if the loss of blood damaged her brain? That would be all he’d need—a pissed-off, crazy, ex–Jäger-Sucher werewolf.
“I’ll pass,” he muttered, then laughed. The laughter scared him. He sounded a little crazy himself.
Julian snatched up the quilt, lifted her again, and marched into the storm. There he used the heat of his hands to melt snow and wash the bloody muck from her skin; then he wrapped her in the blanket and carried her inside.
Her lips were still blue, her face ice white. She shivered so violently, he was afraid she’d bite off her own tongue from the force of her chattering teeth. Although maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Without a tongue she’d have a helluva time talking.
Until it grew back.
Julian peeled away the quilt, gritting his teeth as her scent washed over him. She smelled like pack, with a hint of lemony woman and an enticing tinge of blood. The fine hairs on his arms lifted and goose bumps ran across his flesh.
The bruises along her ribs appeared black against the snowy shade of her skin. The snow bath and the extreme cold had slowed the bleeding from the slashes across her belly. They were deep—they would, if she’d still been human, need a helluva lot of stitches—but Julian couldn’t see any of her insides peeking through to the outside.
“That has to be good,” he murmured.
She moved, moaned, and fresh blood pimpled her flesh. Werewolves healed fast, even in human form, but she would not heal completely unless she shifted, or he helped her.
Julian placed his palm against the wounds, closed his eyes, thought of—
His fingers flexed. She was so soft, so smooth and supple and—
“Damn!” He snatched his hand away as his penis twitched. What the hell was wrong with him?
She had killed his wife. That should make him angry enough to do anything.
But it didn’t.
Instead the thought of Alana only made him sad. And sad was not mad. No matter how much he might wish it to be.
Julian tried again, placing his hand to the bruise. She wiggled beneath his touch, rubbing her skin along his. His eyes slid closed, and his fingers stroked the curve of her ribs; the soft, slight swell of her breast brushed his knuckles. This felt so good, so right, so meant—
He lurched back, falling hard on his ass, then sat there breathing heavily, staring at her still, pale form. This was not right. For him, nothing would ever be right again. Especially with her.
At last the anger came, and his fingers began to warm. He held them over her, remembering what he’d felt, what he’d thought, what he’d nearly done. His hands sparkled as if covered in dew beneath the morning sun, and he watched, still fascinated despit
e all the centuries of magic, as her skin knit together and the bruises began to fade.