"Mary Janice Davidson - Wyndham Werewolves 01 - Love's Prisoner" - читать интересную книгу автора (Davidson Mary Janice)

turned to her felled giant, who had been helped to his feet by the blonde. "She's pregnant."

The brunette grinned in triumph, and he stared at her with a gleaming gold gaze, a gaze too proud and
possessive for her taste.

"Congratulations," the redhead said politely, "to both of you."

To her astonishment, the blonde reached out and put his hand on her flat stomach. "Here grows the next
pack leader," he said respectfully. "Congratulations, ma'am."

She gritted her teeth. "Hand. Off. Now."

He complied hastily. Before she could think of what to do or say—nothing had been controllable since
that double pink line—the brunette spoke up. His color was coming back, and he had recovered from a
ball-stomping much faster than she expected. "Jeannie, the short version is: I'm a werewolf—as I believe
you heard—the pack leader, you're pregnant with my heir and successor, I have enemies who would
steal my mate and unborn child so it's not safe for you to stay here, you have to come home with us."

Without a word, she turned around and went into her apartment, firmly closing the door in their faces,
twisting the deadbolt with a click. Once inside, she started shaking so hard she looked around for a place
to sit down.

"Jeannie?"

It was the brunette, calling her from the hallway. Sure, like she'd open the door and say, 'Yes, dear?'

"Jeannie, get away from the door."

Having seen his strength before, she had a good idea what was coming, and went at once to the small
chest on the living room endtable. There was a tremendous thud and her door shuddered in its frame.
She flipped the top of the chest and grabbed her 9mm Beretta, cursing herself for being so paranoid
about gun safety that she kept the clip—fully loaded—in her bedroom. No time to go for it now—
THUD!

—her door had just been kicked off the hinges.

She turned, her palm cupping the handle of the gun to conceal the emptiness where a clip should be, and
leveled it at him, sighting in on the hollow of his throat. The brunette—odd, how she still didn't know his
name—stepped across the threshold into her home. His friends, she was relieved to see, were nowhere
in sight.

"You're going to shoot the father of your child?" he asked with honest curiosity. He picked up the door
and set it neatly aside, then strolled toward her.

"In a New York minute," she said coldly. "Stop. Turn around. Go now."

"I can't imagine your rage and hurt and frustration." His tone was serious; he never even glanced at the
gun; his gaze was locked on her face. "I told you I had no choice, and I hope someday you'll be able to
see me as more than a conscienceless monster."