Maybe I should just tell him what I am.

But she knew she wouldn’t because she couldn’t stand to see the horror—or worse, pity—mirrored on his face when she revealed her true nature.

•●•

Lars retreated to his seat from where he’d been leaning halfway across the cockpit. He may not have had much experience with women, but Tamara’s rapid about-face stunned him. Things had been going so well. She’d been warm, funny, half-aroused by his touch. And then it was as if a gateway had slammed shut.

What did I do?

He raked through his memory of what they’d said to one another and couldn’t pinpoint a thing. To divert himself, he extracted data from the onboard computer. They’d be in the air for hours yet. Difficult hours if she remained in the cabin and refused to tell him what was wrong. He could leave the cockpit, but not for long. It was one of the advantages of flying with a copilot.

Her scent lingered in the air. She hadn’t been the only one aroused. His cock throbbed with need. He told it to stand down, but it had other ideas. Worse, as often happened when he was upset, his cat wanted out. He struggled to keep claws from bursting through his fingertips. Shifting in the cockpit was a terrible idea. His cat could do a lot of damage without meaning to.

He searched for a rational explanation. She’d been talking about her family when things had gone to hell. There had to be a connection, but what? He gripped the yoke so hard, the aircraft shuddered, and he forced himself to let go of the controls. The autopilot would take care of course corrections. He didn’t need to do a thing until they got close to Seattle and Boeing Field.

Family. Was there something about her family she wanted to hide? He snapped his fingers. Of course. She held magic, probably shifter magic, but maybe something different. Magic always had a genetic basis, except for the odd lycan who inherited theirs through being bitten. She was protecting her family. Lars took a deep breath. There wasn’t any help for what would come next. He’d have to expose what he was. Maybe if he did, she wouldn’t feel so vulnerable.

He unbuckled his seat harness, started to get up, and then stopped himself. What if she was so horrified by his revelation she came after him? Magic wielders danced to their own drummer, and they never worked with others outside their own ranks. He girded himself. If she were a witch or a Druid, and not a shifter, she might well decide he needed to die. It would be hard, but he prepared for the unpleasant task of taking her down for the duration of the flight if she became unmanageable. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind he could prevail in a direct contest.

She killed Jaret Chen.

Ja. But he was doped to the gills on heroin.

Lars scanned his instruments. Everything looked good. He stood and walked out of the cockpit. A cursory glance at the empty cabin told him Tamara had to be in the head. He strode down the aisle and tapped on the door. “Fraulein. Are you all right?”

“No.” She sounded as if she’d been crying. “Leave me alone. Please.”

“We are not done talking.” He waited, but the door remained shut. He could have blasted through the lock with magic, but curbed his almost obsessive desire to hold her in his arms. The thought of her alone and distraught in the small head tangled his gut into knots.

Lars tried again. “Please, fraulein. I cannot remain out of the cockpit for long.”

Moments passed. He’d almost decided to say what he needed through the door when the lock clicked and it opened. Tamara emerged, face blotchy with tears. He held out his arms, but she shook her head. “You’d best get back to the cockpit. I’ll join you once I scare up a bottle of water.”

Lars nodded. “Thank you.” She looked so broken, so devastated, it took all his self-control not to draw her against him, but something in her eyes told him it wasn’t a good idea.

She made shooing motions with both hands. “Get moving. I’ll be there soon enough.”

He walked the length of the plane, punched in the code, and reentered the cockpit. Lars shoved a small wooden block between the door and its frame to hold it open. He automatically checked his instruments to make certain the aircraft was still on course and the engines operating within parameters.

Tamara slid into her seat moments after he’d settled into his and buckled in. She looked pale, but determined, as she sipped a bottle of mineral water.

Lars’ stomach was tight. He gauged the distance between them. In case she became uncontrollable and he had to launch countermeasures, he left his seat harness unbuckled. This was one conversation Garen would never find out about. To discuss something so potentially volatile at thirty-five thousand feet was rash and irresponsible, but Lars couldn’t wait until they landed. His heart ached; his soul felt empty.

He selected his words carefully. “I was surprised when you raced from the cockpit, so I have been trying to figure out if I said something that upset you.”

“This isn’t about you. It’s about me. I—I can’t talk about it. You’ve been more than kind. By all the blessed saints, you rescued me. I’d be lying dead on the streets of Nice if you hadn’t stepped in.”

“Ja, I know that part. Why did you leave as if demons dogged your heels?”

“I…can’t talk about it.” She repeated her earlier statement and set her water in a cup holder.

He nodded to himself. “Let me begin, then. You thought I was married. I am not. I know you have some type of magic. It is what you employed to heal your bullet wound.”

He kept his eyes on her, watching intently for her reaction. She curled into herself and looked stricken. “Sure and I canna talk about it.” Her brogue got thicker. Her pupils dilated. She looked like a doe about to bolt from a hedge once she sensed a hunter.

“I will not hurt you, Tamara. Not now. Not ever. I understand about magic because I have some of my own.”

She tensed and drew farther from him. Something flickered in the depths of her stricken eyes. Hope, or maybe fear. She didn’t say anything; a pulse quivered in her neck where it beat too fast.

“Are you not interested in what kind of magic I hold?” After a long pause, she nodded. Her knuckles whitened where she gripped the sides of her seat. “If I tell you, will you trust me enough to tell me what is wrong?”

“Maybe.” The word ripped from her throat and splatted against him. Glass shards couldn’t have cut deeper. He flinched. Her pain was raw, palpable, and it made his heart hurt.

“You have no reason to trust me.” He blew out a tense breath; the struggle with his cat was worsening. “Recognize I have no reason to trust you, either, but I am taking a huge chance by telling you this. I,” he swallowed, throat dry as sandpaper, “am a shifter.”

Her expressive features ran the gamut; he couldn’t decipher her emotional state because her face changed so quickly. She said something in Irish just before she unsnapped her seat harness and launched herself at him with tears coursing down her cheeks. Damn it! He sprang to his feet and pushed her back into her seat, holding her there easily, while muttering in German and cursing fate, the gods, anyone who might be listening.

“Tut mir so leid, dies zu tun Fräulein.” Lars drew back a fist, prepared to deliver a blow to render her unconscious.

She spoke to him in Irish, and then switched to English between sobs. “Stad. Stop. I doona know what you’re saying. I doona speak German. Why would you be hitting me? Sure and I’m a shifter too.”

Chapter Nine

He froze, not certain he’d heard right. “What? What did you just say?”