Two wolves on a cliffside. One who came back from the dead. One who brought him back.
They started the run.
She tucked behind him, matching his stride, following his lead.
Her wolf wanted to go faster.
Guinevere told her wolf no. They were going at the pace he set and that was the pace they would keep because this was his territory and she was a guest and guests don't sprint past their hosts.
Nicholas's wolf sped up.
The new pace was faster than anything she had run with Gavyn and her men. Significantly faster. Her wolf matched it without effort and then pushed past it because her wolf had apparently been waiting for permission to open up and the permission was a black wolf who could actually keep up.
She was running faster than she had ever run in her life and the joy it produced was so enormous it probably slammed into their matebond like a tidal wave because Nicholas's wolf glanced behind him and she caught something on his face that looked suspiciously like a wolf smile.
