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I hate myself just a little more as each closed button removes her delectable flesh from my view.

“A lordly, stag bastard. The one I mentioned before you ran, enticing my wolf to chase. Shaking your cute little doe tail like an offering…”Do not think about her tail now.“The one who received a letter from your late mother. The one who wants to make you his queen… The one who is refusing to leave, even though I told him straight that you were mine, who insists on seeing you, lest we are keeping you here against your will.”

A long silence greets my words, and my heart thumps in my chest. I feel a little sick. Her expression is one of deep guilt, and I cannot work out what the fuck that means.

“I am not interested in another male,” she finally says.

Why do I get the impression she is, despite her words, curious about this stag and maybe lying? I feel the threat lingering in the air, the threat of one of her own kind, spiriting her away.

“Let me see him,” she says. “So I can explain I’m not here as a prisoner.”

Instinct tells me this is a bad fucking idea, but I’m not in my right mind, and so I relent. I have a bad feeling Seven will not fucking go without seeing her, either way. I order Clay and Glen to escort the bastard here. Then, with my instincts still rioting,I do what I absolutely do not want to do: open the door to her cottage and escort her out to where he waits.

The stag bastard stands only a few paces from the door with Clay and Glen in wolf form at his side.

“Oh,” she says, all fucking meek and blushing to the roots of her hair.

The bastard is naked. Why the fuck did I not remember this?

“Hello, little one,” he says, smiling benevolently down at her.

“I’m terribly sorry you came all the way over here,” she says. Her eyes slide to me briefly before they swing straight back to him like they are subject to a magnetic force.

“No trouble at all.” His smile is warm and genuine as if he only thinks of her welfare and is not a predator homing in on prey.

Her aroused scent suddenly perfumes the air…

“Put some fucking clothes on,” I bark.

Fawn starts.

Seven arches one golden brow and pats himself down in a slow, deliberate way that draws Fawn’s eyes to his considerable masculine assets, tracking his every move—her blush deepens.

The bastard is putting his stall out while I am standing right here!

His expression is one of feigned innocence. “I traveled light and forgot to pack any clothes.”

“I am used to males in a state of undress,” Fawn says, pink-cheeked and pretty, her arousal blooming stronger with every passing moment and clogging the rational part of my mind. “I have lived with shifters all my life. Would you like a cup of tea? I also have some honey cake.”

What the fuck? This is not sending him on his way. A few blunt words along the lines of“I am not a prisoner, now fuck off”would have sufficed.

“I am sure Master Stag”—bastard golden balls—“is very busy,” I say. Also, I need to get him away from you.

“That would be wonderful, little one,” Seven says, ignoring me. “I should be delighted to take tea with you.”

He steps forward, takes her hand in his, and walks her past me into the cottage. As they reach the door, he glances back over his shoulder and smirks at me.

Clay looks to me for direction. I jerk my head toward the trees. I have likely already drawn enough gossip from the pack and don’t need any fucking more.

“You are a lot bigger now,” she says, moving to put the water on to boil while I stand in the doorway fuming.

I roll back the words… Bigger? When the fuck did she meet him before?

The sense of danger in their interchange hits me with the force of a runaway boulder.

“I was a young stag when we met last, only thirteen—I have grown since then.”

“Wow,” she says, her eyes wide. She places plates, forks and slab cake on the table with a knife beside it. Her sweet scent follows her movements—the bastard’s nose twitches. “You were already so big.”