Mists of Velvet

fascinating—and thrilling—was that his torc and his wrist cuffs were decorated with images of wolves.
    He was, indeed, her mate. If she had had any doubts, they were gone. He carried the image of her shifter self on his cuffs and the torc. She knew now that their fates were intertwined. She was his, and he was hers.
    Continuing with her exploration of his body, Bronwnn carefully tended each wound with the herbs and an incantation. He slept deeply and peacefully. Depending upon how much thorn-apple he had been given, it could be hours or even a day before he awakened, free of the effects.
    Settling down beside him, she watched the slow rise and fall of his chest. The firelight flickered along his body, and she studied the shadows, the way they played over his ridged abdomen, and below, his sex, which was large and thick, even in his current state.
    Bringing her legs to her chest, she rested her head against her knees, watching him and wondering about him. She thought of when he awoke, and what he would say to her. What would he think of her? Bronwnn had a moment of flickering insecurity. What if she wasn’t what he desired in a female?
    As soon as the feeling came, it left. They were fated to be lovers, she reminded herself. They had been physically intimate in her dreams, and he always came to her, eager to touch her. Their union was written in the stars. He would want her. Just as much as she desired him.
    The crackling of the fire, the warmth, the excitement of what had happened and what was yet to come, took their toll on her, and she drifted to sleep, heedless of the dangers of what might very well come to find them.

    Rhys awoke, his throat excruciatingly dry, his eyes gritty and sandy, and his body stiff and sore. It was dark in the cottage. The fire had died, and the room had begun to cool.
    He was naked, he realized, and his chest had been covered in something green and pasty. Trying to get his bearings, he raised his head from the pallet and squinted. Through the grimy window, he saw the faint glow of the sun rising in the distance. He had no idea what time it was, or even what season it was in Annwyn, but with the sun so low over the horizon, he figured it was early morning.
    He’d survived the night, thanks to his little goddess.
    Carefully he sat up, eager for a glimpse of the woman. A powerful rush of protectiveness and curiosity ran through him when he thought of her. He couldn’t believe that his dreams had been entwined with a goddess and his fate tied to hers.
    He tried to speak, but his voice didn’t want to work, so he sat up. At first, his head spun, but then it cleared. He half expected to find her lying beside him, and he looked to his right and saw that something was there. But it wasn’t his goddess. It was the white wolf he had seen peeking out at him from the trees when he’d first fallen by the reflecting pool.
    A moment of fear impaled him, but then rational thought prevailed. If the wolf wanted his throat, it would have had it by now. Obviously, this animal was a guide.
    Rhys smirked as he ran his hands through his hair. This was the second time he’d seen the wolf. One more time, and it would be his ally, just like the adder. It was damned strange how these animals all of a sudden came to him. He was no shaman—he wasn’t even a Sidhe—but there must be something about him that attracted these animals. Perhaps he really did have a purpose in Annwyn.
    Rhys ran his hand through the wolf’s thick, luxurious fur. Slowly, its eyes opened, revealing the most astonishing pale blue eyes he had ever seen.
    They stared at each other carefully. Taking care not to make any rash movements, Rhys gently raised his hand to the wolf’s muzzle. He knew enough about canines to understand this was the best way to befriend them; to let them sniff. But the wolf cocked its head and looked at him as if he were mad. Just as he was about to pull his fingers out of reach, the wolf surprised him by sniffing his fingertips, then licking him.
    He smiled and petted the animal behind its ears. This was no savage beast. It was tame. Rhys wondered if the wolf belonged to his goddess. It seemed the right kind of animal for her to have. There was an ethereal majesty to the wolf, the same sort of angelic beauty his goddess bore.
    Lying back down upon the pallet, Rhys turned on his side and studied the wolf. Swallowing hard, he tried to talk once more. “Where is your mistress this morning?” he asked, his