Master of Smoke

Meanwhile, White Fang’s former victim wasn’t letting any grass grow under his bare feet. He ran into the woods as if he could see in the dark, long, black hair flying, every step shouting of a grim determination to put as much distance as possible between himself and his attacker.

Then he stumbled over a root, slammed a shoulder into a tree trunk, and fell on his face.

Shit. Eva slid to her knees beside him. “Hey, are you okay?” She took him by one brawny shoulder and rolled him over. He was heavy, massive with bone and muscle. Back in her human days, she probably wouldn’t have been able to budge him at all. He stared up at her, dazed and shocked. She tried again, enunciating. “Are you hurt?”

His pupils snapped into thin slits against crystalline blue irises, and his lips peeled back from fangs. One hand flashed out to clamp around her wrist in a grip like forged steel.

And he snarled right into her face.

Startled, she tried to jerk back. With her strength, she should have pulled free easily, yet his grip didn’t break. “Hey! Let go! I’m trying to help, dammit!”

He stared at her, something profoundly alien in his blue eyes. Abruptly the hostility faded, replaced by a hot male interest. She tugged again, but he dragged her down and breathed in deeply, as if drinking in her scent.

Just as she drank his. Damn, he smelled good. Pure male musk, tempting despite the sweat, rage, and fear lingering in his scent.

Eva frowned. There was blood, too, smelling of copper and pain as it rolled from the cuts and scratches marring muscled ribs and brawny arms.

“It’s you.” His voice was incredibly deep, as dark and soft as black velvet. “At last.”

“Me?” She swallowed. “What are you talking about?”

“We have waited for you for so very long,” he rumbled, his gaze searching her face with a passionate intensity she’d never seen in a man’s eyes. “We’ve hungered for your love—for your simple company. And now here you are. At last.”