Spotting Doyle, she twirled a finger in the air, jabbed it, in a sign he took to mean she was wrapping things up, to wait.

“Yeah, agreed, Atlantis is a whole different kettle. I’m happy to do that, and will first thing in the morning. Uh-huh, right. I just need a little time to put it all together for you first.”

Doyle opened the bag of cookies—it was right there—pulled one out. She kept talking while he ate, while he wandered her room, looking at the books, the maps stuck to the walls, the notes only organized by her eye.

They’d had a few words on her lack of system, but she could, indeed, put her hand on any and everything she wanted in seconds, so he’d lost that round.

The room smelled of her soap—just a faintest hint of vanilla—and the flowers Annika insisted on putting in every bedroom. Including his own.

He ate another cookie, bent over a new translation she must have worked on by herself, lost track a bit until her voice cut through his thoughts again.

“I’m grateful, Doctor. This is a big help. I will absolutely do that. Thanks. Yeah, thanks. Bye.”

She clicked off the phone, did a little dance in place. Her dark gold eyes read smug. For some strange reason, he liked them smug.

“You’ve had good news.”

“Bet your fine ass. He forgot to turn his phone back on, never turned on his computer. White—my source. And he gave me—”

The phone slipped out of her hand, bounced on the bed as she gasped. “Oh, fuck it, fuck it, I waited too long. Get out, get out, get out!”

She dropped straight to the floor, began to fight with her bootlaces.

And Doyle realized he hadn’t paid attention either. The sun was setting in a fiery red ball.

Her breath came fast and harsh, and her fingers fumbled over the double knots in her laces.

He started to back out, then tossing the bag of cookies aside, crouched down. “I’ve got these. I’ve got them.”

“Get out! Oh, shit.”

She grabbed the bottom of her tank, yanked it over her head.

“I’ve got it.” He dragged off her boots, the socks, and when she threw her head back, when he saw the change glint in her eyes, gritted his teeth, pulled her belt open.

“Hold on.”

“I can’t.”

She moaned, and he heard bones begin to creak, shift.

“Riley.” Sasha stopped in the doorway.

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it. Don’t fucking bite me.” While her spine arched, Doyle flipped open the button of her cargo shorts, yanked them and the panties beneath down her legs. Then hooked his fingers in the sports bra she wore, and dragged it over her head and clear.

Naked, she twisted away, rose on all fours.

Her shoulders bunched, and the muscles bulged. Her hands curled, with nails lengthening, going sharp, as skin became pelt.

Again, she threw back her head, and somehow caught between wolf and woman, howled. And the woman was gone.

The wolf growled low, then ran for the terrace doors. In one spring she landed on the stone rail, in another she leaped into the night.

“Oh, my God. Riley.”

Sasha dashed to the terrace, ran out a step behind Doyle. And saw the wolf land neatly, impossibly on the lawn on the other side of the pool. With one glance toward them, she turned and loped into the grove.

“I didn’t know she could . . . It seems an impossible jump.”

Magnificent—he couldn’t block the reaction—fierce and magnificent. “Apparently not for her.”

“She needs to run,” Sasha remembered. “She told us she needs to run right after the change. All that energy. Why were you . . .” She glanced at the scattered clothes, cleared her throat. “Not my business.”

“And not like that. Annika asked me to bring her up some bloody cookies, and she was on that bloody phone of hers. With the guy she’s been after. She wasn’t paying attention, and neither was I. She was excited, whatever he told her got her juices running, and she started the change while she was still dressed.”

“You helped her.”

“She couldn’t get her damn boots off, then . . .”

Sasha laid a hand on his arm. “You helped her. Even if she’s embarrassed by that, and snarls—ha—a little tomorrow, she’s grateful for the help.”

On a sigh, she turned back into the room. “I’ll pick up her things so she doesn’t . . .”

Doyle turned to her when she trailed off, saw the sight come into her eyes. More magnificence, he thought. He’d never known three women more compelling.

“They’re coming. She sends him, transformed as one of us has transformed. For me, for my blood, for my blood to feed her.”

“She can forget it.” Firmly, Doyle took her shoulders. “Get Bran, get your bow. I’ll tell the others.”

“While we’re five, and weaker, she watches.”

“Let her watch. Go!”

He unclipped Riley’s holster from her belt, clipped it to his own, and called the others to arm as he ran down the steps for his sword.

Inside, Sawyer grabbed more clips, shoved them in his pocket. He could admit, at least to himself, he wanted nothing more than one clear shot at Malmon. He shoved a spare knife in his boot and hurried out to join the others.

“In the grove?”

“No time.”

Bran pointed to where Sasha’s gaze was locked. It resembled a cloud, dark and boiling, spewing out of the sky and filled with storms.