The black-brushed wolf (for like it or not, he was a wolf no matter what more he told himself) held to the collie-woman as if she might vanish under his grasp. She felt real in the way that so many things did. She was made of flesh and blood and bone, but Shadow and Spirit fought for control within her. Gabriel had killed his own; he could not bring himself to kill the dark within this woman because it might harm her yet. Black hair spilled into his eyes, over her crème hands, and he leaned into the touch as if this too might disappear.
“Forever,” he said quietly, promising her what he had done only once before.
Above them the storm rolled and he was aware of it, but for as mighty and terrible as the world was, he felt as if he could protect her against anything. Even herself.
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