“She performed a partial shift.”
The warlord’s intent, worried stare lifts from his mate currently sitting on the healer’s table, and to the source. The healer stands by his side holding a large leather-bound book with ancient diseases and plagues that befall the Lycans. His hand rises to rub the throbbing spot between his brow, a tension headache bloomed out of fear and pure terror for his mate.
Thrice in his life now River has nearly given him heart attacks and high blood pressure.
“A partial shift,” he murmurs thoughtfully. Such shifts were rare, one in every five centuries would either be born with the inability to fully shift or a human turned would only grow out their tail and ears. His gaze returns to his mate, now freshly dressed in a clean white shirt and skirt, her bare fee
