I rub my eye the next morning, all hazy, and glance down at the bottom of the bed where Anton still lays in his wolf form.
And I scowl, feeling sorry and sleepy and still a little mad.
My wolf nips me. Stubborn, she growls.
I just huff a sigh and glare down at my chest, where I imagine she lives. Look who’s talking, I toss back at her – she who never, ever gives up on a point when she sets her teeth in it.
Apologize! She snaps, shaking out her fur in preparation for the day. Because it’s going to be a big one and we both know it.
But I ignore her advice, crawling forward to inspect Anton a bit when I realize that he’s genuinely sleeping, not just pretending to. He’s a very handsome wolf, I think, with fine lines and a nicely shaped face.
He has both of those as a boy, too, my wolf
