My expression froze. The blood in my veins turned to ice—and then, without any sense to it, I laughed.
Rogan Ashfen. The same Rogan Ashfen who supposedly couldn't be in the same room as moonpetal wine without his throat closing and his skin breaking into angry welts. There he sat, leaning across the rough-hewn table to press his lips against hers, sharing the wine mouth to mouth, his face glowing with a happiness I hadn't witnessed in years. His wolf's joy pulsed through the air, thick enough to choke on.
The female startled, pushing him away with both hands planted against his chest. She covered her face, flustered, her cheeks flushing beneath her fingers.
"Others are watching!"
"Have you no shame?!"
Rogan's eyes crinkled at the corners, his voice dripping with an indulgence that made my stomach turn. "You're my intended. Why would I care who sees?"
That voice. I knew that voice—but not that tone. Never that tone. Not for me. Not once in all our bonded years.
A sharp pain lanced through my chest as I watched him gently pull her hands away from her face, gazing at her like she was something precious. Something worth protecting. His wolf practically preened.