Mated to the Warg, (Wargs of the Outland, #1)

Hekki's Eye

Thrax was kneeling beside Rowan as she studied the footprints in the mud. "Well?" he murmured, sounding impatient. But the hand sliding around her ribs and up over her breasts belied his gruff tone.

She turned to him with an arched brow, slapping his hand away. "It's a snaggle-tooth hart," she said, pinching her mouth between her teeth so as not to smile at his antics.

His wicked hand was persistent, sneaking in to palm her breast again. "Are you sure?" He sounded bored, but she knew better. His eyes erupted with bright yellow. "You said the musk fox was a golrag, remember?"

Her belly quivered, flames licking deep in her core. He was making it nigh impossible to think. "Maybe if you kept your roving hands to yourself, I'd not have mistook the musk fox for a golrag." She narrowed her eyes as he sought and pinched her nipple through her dress. She'd need to commission a jerkin made of thick leather before taking hunting lessons from Thrax again. "Stop distracting me, you're a terrible instructor."

He flipped her around and pushed her onto her back so that she was looking up at his smug face. "The outland is full of distractions, min skani, none of them so delightful as me."

"Arrogant beast," she said, turning her face away from the kiss he was trying to plant on her lips. Her laughter turned into squealing as he nipped her neck. She only managed to escape him by digging her claws into his unguarded ticklish spot.

He grunted with laughter and rolled off her. He watched her for a moment, smirking, and then turned his head to the south as she got back to studying the footprints. They were on high ground, trying to spot the owner of the prints.

"It's a snaggle-tooth hart," she said again. "I'm certain of it."

He came over to trace the spoor with his finger. "It's too small to be a hart."

Her smile dimmed. "Oh." It looked big enough, she'd been so certain.

Thrax pushed a lock of her hair off her shoulder, his mouth quirking up. "It is, however, a snaggle-tooth doe."

The smile leaped back in place. "I'm half right, then!"

"Yes," he chuckled, helping her to her feet. His eyes darted back to the south again, towards the dark sky obscuring the range in the distance.

"What is that place?" She didn't like the look of his expression whenever he looked that way.

"The Deadwolds," he said.

"And what is that mountain?" She followed his gaze to the mountainous ridge that spanned the southeast horizon. There were storm clouds hovering on this side of the range, obscuring the tops. Whenever she glanced that way, six times out of ten, Brek was throwing thunder over the shadow lands below the mountain. Perhaps to warn away unsuspecting travelers. Not that there were many folk daft enough to venture into the outland.

On a clear day, it was a vastness visible even from the towers of West Gate, but she'd never bothered to learn much about the shadowy features beyond the Iron Girdle. Until she'd come to Carthyrk, the winding Jorg had been the only landmark she'd been able to name. From her apartments in West Gate, the river snaked towards the horizon, its surface like gleaming black scales when the sun was low in the sky.

"We call that mountain Myrkheim," said Thrax. "There's an old mountain pass that leads directly to West gate, but you have to cross the Deadwolds to get to it. It's why we travel east first, skirting the mountain, before heading southward to join up with the Jorg as it flows to West Gate."

She didn't need to ask why it was necessary to avoid the Deadwolds. The Jorg seemed like the only thing brave enough to snake along the mountain range, skirting those shadow lands.