Michael kissed the corners of her lips. Her aroma, cinnamon and leather, was in his soul. He hailed a passing cab, and he and Chesna got in and headed for Piccadilly and their hotel.
On the way he took the envelope from his pocket, broke the waxed seal, and removed the letter. There were two words, written in a familiar handwriting: Another mission?
He returned the letter to the envelope and the envelope to his pocket. The man in him yearned for peace, but the wolf in him yearned for action. Which one would triumph? That he couldn’t say.
Chesna leaned against him, her head on his shoulder. “Is that something you need to take care of?”
“No,” Michael told her. “Not today.”
A battle had been won, but the war went on.
The End
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