Ovelia dumping half the shampoo bottle on her head ("It's snowing!") and her sudden philosophical musings ("Do wolves like baths?*), I was equal parts exasperated and endeared.
An hour later, I was certain I'd earned sainthood.
Then she stilled, her wet lashes lifting. "Ace… do you hate me?"
The question struck like a physical blow. "No," I said immediately, cupping her face. "Never."
Her smile—soft, trusting—unraveled something in my chest.
But as I toweled her off, her fingers brushing mine, the tension returned tenfold. She leaned into me, her breath warm against my skin. "Thank you," she whispered.
At this moment, I felt my wolfish desire bubbling inside me. My hand slid into her damp hair, tilting her face up. Our lips met, and for one searing moment, she kissed me back, her mouth sweet and yielding.
But as the heat of the moment intensified, the image of Eliana flashed into my mind. I recoiled, my heart pounding, a wave of guilt washing over me.
