Ellena Vasiliev was her full name. She teased him about their age difference—now that they knew she was over four hundred years old. Hollis didn’t care. He loved knowing she and her pack were German. Their nomadic existence was cut short when they were driven from their native country, for witchcraft, in seventeen eighty-five. She’d stared at her name for almost an hour, her eyes filling with tears, and a smile on her lips before she’d turned to him.
“I remember my mother’s face.” There had been so much joy in her eyes.
The more they read, the more her memories began to resurface. She recorded them all. Flashes, sensory memories, voices, or places. Each day she added something to her notebook. And each day she grew rounder with their child.
“Maybe I’m done with books and research for the day.” Her mismatched gaze blazed with a need he understood far too well.
He buried his nose in her hair and breathed deep. Would this hunger ever ease? Even now, safe in his arms, he craved more. “My wolf agrees.”
“Oh? What else does your wolf say?” Ellen asked, her fingers tangling in his hair.
“That he loves you,” he whispered. “And you love me.”
“That is true.” She nodded. “And?”
Hollis shook his head. “He’d rather I showed you.” He took her hand in his and led her to their room.