He was her only safe haven in a world that had become her worst nightmare.

For the first time, Torrance got a clear look at her rescuer’s face.

“It’s you!” she gasped, sounding groggy.

“Shh. Just take it easy,” Mason rasped, staring down at her, his expression fierce and brutally hard, with lingering traces of violence and rage. A warm glow burned in his oddly lit gaze. Animal ferocity, predatory and wild, rode the long lines of his body. His eyes smouldered with an intensity that made her feel… uncomfortably sensitive. And suddenly Torrance was aware of being cradled against the strongest chest she’d ever felt.

There was something wrong here, she knew. But she mentally shoved the irritating thought away, her body finding too much enjoyment out of being in his arms. If she thought too hard about things, she would have to move…and that just wouldn’t do.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rhyannon Byrd fell in love with a Brit whose accent was just too sexy to resist. Lucky for her, he turned out to be a keeper, so she married him and they now have two precocious children who constantly keep her on her toes. Living in the Southwest, Rhyannon spends her days creating provocative romances with her favourite kind of hero – intense alpha males who cherish their women. When not writing, she loves to travel, lose herself in books and watch as much football as humanly possible with her loud, fun-loving family.

For information on Rhyannon’s books and the latest news, you can visit her website at www. rhyannonbyrd.com.

Dear Reader,

Dark, deliciously intense alpha males are my favourite kind of hero. I just love their rugged sexuality, rasping growls and fierce possessiveness. As a writer, there’s nothing I enjoy more than creating a character who snags your attention, makes you shiver with awareness and, by the end of the story, has captured your heart. What better way to do that than with an alpha – especially one who just so happens to be half werewolf, like Mason Dillinger, the gorgeous, drop-dead sexy hero in Last Wolf Standing.

From the opening scene, when Mason walks into a bustling café and catches the scent of his human mate, the primal side of his nature is evident in his every action and thought. And yet despite his intense attraction to her, in true alpha-male fashion, Mason puts up a heck of a fight when it comes to opening his heart and falling in love. But what’s so wonderful about this breed of hero is that when they finally give in, they do it with every part of themselves, with all the raw, powerful force of their character. The Bloodrunners may be a wild, wickedly tempting bunch, but it’s their complete and utter devotion to their women that I truly love about them.

As the first of my Bloodrunners, Mason will always hold a special place in my heart. I hope you enjoy his story and find him as irresistible as I do.

All the best!

Rhyannon

Last Wolf Standing

RHYANNON BYRD

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my father, Patrick, who has always believed

in my dreams.

Thanks for always being there, Pops! I love you!

I’d like to take a moment to thank all the

wonderful people who have supported me

through the writing of this book:

Deidre Knight, of the Knight Agency,

for making it all possible!

Ann Leslie Tuttle, for her endless patience and

insight. I’m so thrilled to be working with you.

Charles Griemsman, for always being so helpful

and keeping me on track.

Erotic-romance author Madison Hayes,

whose incredible talent never ceases to amaze

me. Thanks for always offering your

unconditional support. I don’t know what I’d

do without you.

Debbie Hopkins Smart, who keeps me sane

and can always make me laugh, even when

I’m pulling my hair out.

Two of my awesome critique partners,

Patrice Michelle and Shelley Bradley,

whose books I can never get enough of.

And last but not least, my family, who somehow manage to live with me while I’m under

deadline without killing me. I love you guys!

THE BLOODRUNNERS’ LAW

When offspring are born of a union between human and Lycan, the resulting creations may only gain acceptance within their rightful pack by the act of Bloodrunning: the hunting and extermination of rogue Lycans who have taken a desire for human flesh. Thus they prove not only their strength, but their willingness to kill for those they will swear to protect to the death.

The League of Elders will predetermine the Bloodrunner’s required number of kills.

Once said number of kills are efficiently accomplished, only then may the Bloodrunner assume a place among their kin, complete with full rights and privileges.

Chapter 1

If not for the bustling noise of the crowd, anyone standing within five feet of Mason Dillinger would have easily heard the two halting, roughly drawled words that slipped slowly past the tightening line of his mouth.

“Oh, shit.”

Perhaps not the most erudite of phrases, but what it lacked in eloquence it more than made up for in conviction. In fact, in Mason’s opinion it summed the situation up to perfection.

After all, it wasn’t every day that one of his kind found his life mate in a throng of jacked-up caffeine addicts. Five seconds ago he’d have sworn that it could never happen—that a woman who had been created as his perfect match, the other half of his self, even existed—but there was no denying what that scent was doing to his head, not to mention his quickly thickening body parts.

“Hell,” he muttered under his breath, reaching down with one hand to rearrange himself, pulling the edge of his flannel shirttail in front of his bulging fly. “I’m screwed.”

The second he’d stepped through the doorway into the bustling interior of The Coffee and Croissant, the smell of her had hit him like a fist upside the head, rolling across his tongue like the sweetest sin, the most wicked of temptations. It was something he wanted to sink his teeth into and swallow. Something creamy and entirely his. The erotic promise of damp, pink flesh that would be slippery and warm to the lap of his tongue, rich and succulent like a treasure.

He wanted to eat her alive…and he didn’t even know who she was.

But he knew where she was. She was somewhere in this crowded, pain-in-the-ass, prepped-out joint that his Bloodrunning partner, Jeremy Burns, had insisted they duck into before the entire day had passed them by without eating. With their accelerated metabolisms, it was unhealthy to go too long without sustenance, not to mention dangerous as hell to the general population at large.

Yeah, he knew where she was. And he knew what she was, too.

She was his.

Mason’s narrowed eyes quickly scanned his surroundings, taking everything in, and then his head tilted back and he allowed inhuman senses so much sharper than mere sight to take over and read the room. Hot, fresh-baked croissants were just being taken from an industrial oven in the kitchen. To his left, a small, distinct clatter of metal against crockery as a businessman added sugar to his double cappuccino. A toddler fussed in the corner, beside a belligerent, kohl-eyed teenager in black who scowled at her father as he lectured her on the importance of grades. The myriad of sounds and scents assailed him, chaotic and full, and yet she burned through sharp and crisp like a radiant beam of light. Vibrant, breathtaking sunshine on a bone-chilling, cloud-smothered day. Something warm and comforting like home.

Hunger clawed its way up his spine, ripping through his system with such force that he expected to look down and see blood seeping through the thin cotton of his navy T-shirt and dark gray flannel, spreading like death down to the ragged denim of his jeans. Ripping him open quicker than teeth or claws ever could.

His nostrils flared as another soft drift of mouthwatering scent crashed through him. Yes, it was right there…lingering on the air, and a hard shudder racked the long length of his body, his skin going hot and damp as a low, unfamiliar burn began in his belly. An animal lust…but different. The unmistakable hunger for hard, grinding, gritty sex, and yet utterly foreign from the driving need he’d known in the past. He’d had his share of women in his lifetime, leaving them quickly, yet always with their well-used bodies heavy with pleasure, steeped in satisfaction—but this was more. Harder. Deeper. A sharp-edged, driving need unlike anything he’d ever experienced, raging and explosive.

He didn’t just want to bury himself inside her—he had to.

But first he had to find her.

“You’re growling.” The deep voice came low and lazy from just behind him, sounding almost bored, though Mason knew his friend well enough to sense that Jeremy had picked up on his tension, even without the telltale growl rumbling up from his chest.

“Shut up,” he muttered silkily, and Jeremy snorted in return, nudging him over as he forced his way in through the door, leaving the bitter wind behind them as the glass monstrosity pulled automatically to a close. A few customers turned their heads to look at them, doing double takes as they took in the sight of two hard, well-muscled men who stood over six feet, their casual clothes in no way disguising the brute strength of their battle-honed bodies. The two Bloodrunners reacted to the attention the same way they always did—they ignored it.

Focused on finding the woman, Mason’s nostrils flared, the sound of his heart all but filling his ears as it began a hard, purposeful beat like the pulsing chords of a Goth song. “Don’t you smell it?”

“What I smell,” Jeremy said, exhaustion weighing his words, “is food, which reminds me we skipped breakfast in order to get a head start on our hunt and we still haven’t had lunch. Are we going to stand here in the entrance all day, or actually order something before I have to gnaw someone’s arm off?”

“You’re not scenting her?” he questioned again, ignoring Jeremy’s crude sense of humor, and recognizing the increasing gruffness of his own voice as a clear sign that he was losing control.

Bad timing, considering they were surrounded by the flesh and blood of other customers, but there didn’t seem to be a damn thing he could do about it. He wasn’t leaving until he found her.

“Which one?” Jeremy muttered, scrubbing one sun-darkened hand over the golden stubble covering his chin as he jerked his hazel gaze left to right, scanning the crowded café. “With all the soaps and lotions women drown themselves in nowadays, flowers are all I can smell in this place, other than the food.”

Mason shook his head in frustration. No, not flowers. The evocative scent was different—deeper…earthier…and it was getting stronger.

The smell alone had him tied in knots, his body feeling tight and hot and swollen. It was something succulent and rich that sat on the tip of his tongue like a warm drop of honey. He wanted to roll it around for a deeper taste. Draw it into the cavern of his mouth and bite down on it. Hold it. Keep it and fight for it.

Harsh, lust-thick images in blazing ambers and reds flashed through his hunt-tired mind, revitalizing him, jamming his system, jacking him up and taking him to a bigger high than any substance he’d ever used. Like most cross-breeds, he’d spent his youth searching for a way to fit in and find a measure of peace, but it hadn’t taken him long to learn that life held enough chaos without him screwing with it. By the time he was a man, his innocence had long since vanished. He knew what sin tasted like…and this was it. Wicked and yet as sweet as heaven—the most dangerous kind of pleasure.

His keen eyesight scanned the immediate area again, falling on a lush blonde in a skintight spandex workout suit sucking down a coral-colored smoothie, before quickly moving on. Not her. No…this one was different. Something sharp and uncomfortable in his gut, an uneasy trepidation, told him far different than anything he was prepared for.

Give him blood and battle and he was right at home. Give him easy and loose, and he could make a woman scream without even trying. But give him a complicated female and he shut down. Too much work and he didn’t have the time, the patience or the inclination. Women had always come too easily for him, so why the hell should he work for one?

And this one smelled…complicated.

“Seriously, man,” Jeremy growled. “If you don’t want me turning to the dark side, we need to get in line and order. I’m hungry enough to do something that we’ll both regret.”

“You’re sick, you know that.”

Heaving an exaggerated sigh, Jeremy placed his hand over his heart. “Keep saying things like that and I’ll start thinking you don’t love me anymore.”

Mason opened his mouth, a smart-ass comeback ready to slip free, suitably biting and caustic, when her scent slammed into him so hard he nearly reeled. He spun toward the line that paralleled the one he now stood in, where customers were picking up their stylishly brown-bagged orders. He knew the instant he set eyes on her, though he never would have guessed she’d be the one, had that intoxicating scent not wrapped around him like a vise. But it was her. The innocent-looking little waif with the long auburn braid, her lunch tray tucked up in front of her and a bulky paperback wedged under her right arm, tortoiseshell glasses perched smartly on the bridge of her small nose. She was wearing a deliciously tight white polo shirt with faded blue jeans, a dark red jacket tied around her waist and braided bracelets circling one delicately boned wrist, a slender silver watch on the other. A simple outfit, nothing too provocative, but on her it looked downright sinful, the way it hugged her delicate curves.

A fierce, possessive wave of heat poured through his veins while his mouth watered, and it was only with a conscious effort that Mason controlled the urge to pant like a randy dog. A nice long howl would have felt damn good at the moment, but hardly appropriate, considering their surroundings. Left with no other choice, the animal inside him grumbled its agitation, curling around itself and settling down to quietly seethe, while his human half struggled against the intense need to grab her and run, as far and fast as he could, until he had her all to himself. Not a bad idea, either, except that he’d probably scare her half to death before they got there.

Left with no other option, he waited.

Time seemed to stand still as she walked toward him, his lungs burning while the top of his head felt about ready to come off. Within seconds she was in front of him, without even having glanced in his direction. With an utterly foreign sense of desperation, he did something that he’d never, in all his thirty-three years, thought he would do.

He tripped her.

One moment she was walking past, minding her own business, and in the next his strategically placed scuffed brown hiking boot had her sprawled over the stylish Italian tiled floor, sputtering and cursing quietly under her breath as she came to her knees and struggled to wipe tomato soup off her lenses.

“Are you okay?” he asked, crouching down beside her, wincing at the gruffness of his tone as she turned to him, the biggest pair of dark green eyes he’d ever seen blinking at him in owlish surprise.

“Um, yeah, I think so,” she said slowly, then a spark of mischief began to burn in the deep green of her gaze and she laughed a low, throaty sound that slipped down his spine like a woman’s mouth, damn near making his eyes cross. “I’ve never heard of anyone drowning in soup before, so I think I’m safe,” she drawled, still laughing, and he felt himself grinning in return, until something seemed to burst into awareness between them and their gazes locked in a powerfully raw, smoldering stare, both of them caught in its hold.

The connection burned like pure energy, crackling and sharp, as if the air between their bodies had been electrically charged, and he all but expected to see sparks skittering on the strange current. As he gazed upon her fey face, unique details began imprinting themselves upon his memory like the timeless grooves worn into stone by the rushing currents of the sea, washing away the women of his past until there was nothing but her. Nothing but the delicate curve of her jaw. The tiny beauty mark perched impishly on the arc of her right cheekbone; the darker green that rimmed the softer shade of her gaze. And then there was that mouth, with sensual lips that looked velvety soft and sweetly shy, their color a natural, blushing rose that no cosmetic could duplicate. The carnal things he wanted to do to that kissable little mouth should have been illegal—hell, in some states they probably were. And on top of everything, all the erotic little details that made his head feel thick and his groin feel thicker, there was that provocative scent, earthy and addictive, drugging him with lust and oddly enough…tenderness.

Her breath quivered, twin spots of color cresting across her beautiful cheekbones, and then she shivered, wrenching herself free of the potent visual hold. She cast a quick glance down at the soup-splattered mess she had made of the floor as her soft pink mouth twisted into a wry smile. “And lucky for me, being a klutz isn’t a crime in Maryland, so I don’t think they’ll kick me outta here.”

A low laugh rumbled in his chest. “If they tried, I’d knock their heads together and you could kick them in the ba—shins.”

Joining his laughter, she reached for her overturned tray at the same time he made a grab for it, and their heads nearly collided. They both pulled back, chuckling softly, the growing sensual connection between them all but sizzling on the air, enveloping them in their own little world. It was something hazy and soft, wrapping them in an oddly comforting warmth—cloudlike and weightless—while the desire twisting through them took on a sharp, dangerous edge, like an animal hunger demanding to be fed. She licked her lower lip in what he strongly suspected was a nervous gesture, though it hit him like a practiced seduction, it was so impossibly sexy. Mason swallowed hard as he tried not to choke on the growl he was fighting down, and then Jeremy, his deep voice rough with surprise, suddenly blurted out, “You tripped her!”

Mason closed his eyes and counted to ten, reminding himself the entire time that he couldn’t dismember one of his closest friends, not to mention his Bloodrunning partner, at least not in the middle of a restaurant. The urge to do so was so powerful, however, that he actually felt the tips of his fingers burning as razor-sharp claws pricked impatiently beneath the surface of his skin.

Trying not to snarl, he cut a dark look up at Jeremy, all the while wondering if lightning would strike when he delivered the outright lie. “I think you know me well enough, Burns, to agree that it’d be a cold day in hell before I ever did anything like that.” Ten minutes ago that would have been the honest truth, but Mason figured he was smart enough to realize things were rapidly changing on him, and the reason was deliciously wrapped up in white cotton and denim at his side.

“Then hell just froze over,” Jeremy snorted, grinning as if he thought it was one of the funniest things he’d ever seen, “because you just did.”

“Cut the crap, Jeremy.” He gritted through his teeth, not wanting to look at her, wondering with an awful pressure in his chest if she would believe him when he denied it. No way was he actually admitting what he’d done!

“I mean, you normally have women falling all over themselves trying to catch your attention, but I never thought I’d see the day that you actually tripped one to get her on her knees in front of you.”

Daring a quick look in her direction, Mason watched as that sparkling laughter faded from her eyes, replaced by a guarded, questioning look. “It was an accident,” he muttered, knowing she didn’t believe him as she reluctantly let him help her to her feet.

“Yeah, sure,” she murmured, looking at the floor, then bending back down for her book.

He wondered if she noticed that he’d copped a feel of one firm, deliciously round breast, letting his hand slide up her side while helping her up the second time, then decided she had when she glared up at him, looking like a pissed-off little librarian with those damn glasses and that braid. That affronted image was all wrong for the molten, fiery passion he could feel bubbling just beneath her smooth surface.

“I swear you smell good enough to eat,” he blurted out in a raw, gritty voice, the harsh words all but ripped out of his throat.

He silently cursed, feeling his face go conspicuously hot while she just stared at him in shock. Where the hell did that come from?

Jeremy gave him a sharp look, then threw back his head and burst out laughing. “Oh, damn, this is priceless.” He wheezed, all but bent over as he struggled to hold in the laughter. “God, Mase, you should see the look on your face.”

“Shut. Up. Burns.”

“In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you make such an ass of yourself over a broad.”

“She isn’t a broad,” he rasped, his voice sounding husky and thick even to his own ears.

As if a light switch had suddenly been flipped in his head, the humor vanished from Jeremy’s face. He cursed roughly under his breath, then cut his sharp hazel gaze from her to him, and back to her again, letting his eyes travel over her in a slow, thorough search from the top of her head down to her cute little sneaker-covered feet. His stunned gaze swung back to Mason, hot with accusation. “I don’t friggin’ believe it. You can’t be serious.”

“Leave it alone,” he warned, not wanting to have this conversation here, in front of her. God only knew what Jeremy would say.

“She doesn’t deserve this,” Jeremy argued in a low voice, stepping closer. “Not the kind of crap you’ll bring down on her head, and all because you wanna get laid.”

Wishing he could gag the son of a bitch before he said anything more, Mason growled, “Last warning, Jeremy. Shut up.”

Jeremy stepped closer, unwilling to back down. “Don’t mess with her, Mason.”

“Her does have a name,” she suddenly cut in, her slightly husky voice coming through sharp and clear with mounting irritation. Then, as if dismissing them, she turned back to the mess on the floor, crouched down, and began throwing her ruined lunch back onto the tray. She grumbled under her breath about the lack of help from the café’s staff, while the growing throng of customers sidestepped the unsightly mess, obviously too rushed or rude to offer any help. Then again, he knew they were probably being given a wide berth on purpose. He’d been told, on more than one occasion, that he and Jeremy were an intimidating pair.

Watching as she finished picking up, Mason felt like an ass when he realized he should have been helping her. She stood up with the trash-laden tray, and looked down at her splattered clothing, shaking her head in disgust, talking to herself as she muttered, “Great, I’m wearing tomato soup. How lovely. Now everyone at work will think I’ve been ravaged by a bloodsucking vampire.”

“You believe in vampires?” Jeremy asked, eyeing her with a skeptical look of suspicion.

“Hardly,” she snapped, “but then I’m not the norm around Mic’s.”

“Who the hell is Mic?” Mason grunted, not liking the questions firing through his brain in rapid succession. Mic, the boyfriend? Mic, the next-door neighbor who tore up her sheets with her on Friday night? Mic, the macho mechanic who made her melt when he smiled at her? Whoever the hell he was, Mason hated him.

“Who’s Mic?” she repeated, the corners of her mouth turning down in a tight, irritated frown. “Michaela is my best friend and my boss,” she started to explain, before pressing her lips together and shaking her head. “Not that it’s any of your business,” she added.

“I’m making you my business,” he growled softly, stepping closer, crowding into her space.

She took a short step back and stopped, pinning him with a hard glare. “One more move and I’m screaming.”

God, what was his problem? He was screwing this damn thing up before it even got started. Hell, no one had told him that discovering his life mate would turn him into a blundering, chest-pounding idiot. He was as bad as a gangly teenager high on raging hormones, unable to think past the red-hazed lust and possessiveness clouding his mind.

And to make matters worse, he actually wanted to…get to know this woman. Learn things about her. Her favorite food. Favorite color. Books, movies, pet peeves and things she did for fun. All of which sounded suspiciously like getting to know her on a level that went far beyond physical intimacy, to something deeper and more meaningful.

That was bad, because Mason didn’t have a clue how to handle it. He was a Bloodrunner for God’s sake—he didn’t have time for conversation and “getting to know” people. Not that he had any choice here. The importance of making a good impression on the woman he was meant to spend the rest of his life with wasn’t lost on him, and here he was screwing it up with every damn word that came out of his mouth. At least if he’d had Hennessey on hand, he could have asked for some advice from the womanizing Irishman. Then again, maybe having that pretty face around his woman wasn’t such a good idea. Burns was available, and he knew Jeremy never had any trouble when it came to women. But his social skills were as pathetic as his own, so there’d be no help coming from that quarter.

Looked like he was on his own. Damn.

Taking a deep breath, Mason strove for a calm, nonthreatening, I’m-just-a-nice-guy kind of tone. “Look, I’m sorry. This has been a hell of a day already. How about you take a seat and I’ll get you some more food, okay? That way we can sit and talk.” There, that was good, he thought with a brief measure of relief. He’d managed to form four sentences without sounding like a jealous ass or mentioning how badly he wanted her.

But the look on her face told him she wasn’t buying it.

Christ. This wasn’t going to work. He was going to go up in flames, he realized with no small amount of frustration, dragging the back of his wrist over his damp forehead, wondering if the expression in his eyes mirrored the intensity of his need…or if she simply thought he was nuts.

“Is this,” she said after a moment, studying him from beneath the thick fringe of long russet lashes, “some kind of setup?”

Another deep breath, slow and easy, while he struggled to stay in control. “Setup? For what?”

“God only knows. Some radio show? Are you DJs?” she asked suspiciously.

Mason folded his arms across his chest and scowled at her, insulted down to his boots. “Do I look like a damn DJ?”

She shrugged the delicate line of her shoulders, blowing a wayward wisp of curling auburn hair out of her eyes. “I have no idea. Really, I think I should just be on my way now.”

He opened his mouth to try and convince her to stay, even though he didn’t have a clue what he could say at this point. Unfortunately, Jeremy chose that moment to put in another two cents’ worth. “I’m telling you, man, she doesn’t deserve this. Leave her the hell alone.”

Mason didn’t even take his eyes off her as he softly replied, “I don’t have a choice.”

From the corner of his vision, he watched Jeremy’s hazel gaze narrow as the meaning and repercussions of what he was saying—and what he wasn’t saying—began to seep in. “Christ, Mase. If that means what I think it means, then you know you should walk away. You can’t risk it with Simmons more than likely watching us now that we’re closing in on him.”

“And you should know that walking away isn’t an option for me,” he shot back, careful to keep his voice low so they didn’t draw unwanted attention.

“As fascinating as this is, I’m just going to slink away now myself,” she said carefully, obviously freaked out by their conversation and his behavior. Handing her tray to a dour-faced busboy who finally scuffed by, she took several steps away from them. “I’d say thanks for helping me up, but then, you were the one who dumped me on my ass in the first place. Still, thanks.”

“Just give me a chance to explain. Please. That’s all I’m asking. We’ll stay right here, at one of the tables,” Mason said in a low, urgent rumble, grabbing hold of her arm as she turned, careful not to squeeze too hard. Her bones felt infinitely fragile beneath the inhuman strength of his hand, sending a fierce surge of protectiveness through his blood.

“I need to get back to work,” she murmured, trying to break free of his grip, her book tucked up safely under her other arm. “Now let go of me before I pull out my cell phone and call the cops, then start screaming bloody murder.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t let you do that,” he said quietly, trying to sound reasonable…normal…even though he knew he was going to end up scaring her. “I swear I’m not going to hurt you, okay? But we need to talk, and then I need to get you out of here.”

The expression on her face made him wince, an unbearable sense of defeat nearly flooring him as Mason realized she had every intention of ditching him. Not that he blamed her. If their situations were reversed, he’d have thought he sounded crazy, too.

“And just where do you think I’m going to go with you?” she demanded, the words thick with sarcasm, and he hated the fear he could scent on her—frustrated that he didn’t know how to ease it, how to make her understand. You didn’t just walk up to a human woman and say, Hey, I can tell by your scent that you’re my life mate, which means we belong to each other for the rest of our lives, and never any other. Oh, and by the way, I’m half werewolf, have a rogue bastard most likely watching me because I’m hunting him down to kill him, and I really, really need to mate with you. Hard. And often. As in damn near all the time. At least not without getting your face slapped or your balls kicked. From the look in her eyes, he figured both were strong possibilities at this point.

Trying to sound as nonthreatening as possible, Mason kept his voice low as he said, “Anywhere but here. Jeremy’s right about this being dangerous. We can’t risk keeping you out in the open with him watching us.”

She looked at him as if he’d just told her he was Elvis reincarnated by aliens. “Then here’s a news flash. Why not try walking away and leaving me alone, before you end up in some serious trouble?”

“Not in this lifetime, sweetheart,” he rasped under his breath.

She shook her head in frustration. “Have you recently escaped from a mental institution by chance?”

“Classic,” Jeremy snorted under his breath. “As wrong as this is, I can’t wait to tell your old man that line. He’ll crack a rib from laughing.”

“Look, this is just getting too freaky for me. For the last time, you need to let go. Now.”

Mason let his hand smooth down her arm, shaken by the softness of her skin, clasping as gently as possible around her wrist. He could feel her pulse racing beneath the pads of his fingers and knew she was scared. He figured she’d have run screaming long before now, if not for the throng of customers filling the café, surrounding them. She’d found a measure of comfort in the crowd, but that feeling was rapidly fading. “I know this sounds weird as hell, but I need you to give me a chance. That’s all I’m asking. If you insist on staying here, then at least sit down with me and I’ll explain.”

“I can’t do that.” Her green eyes were clear and bright as she tried to pull away from him, the movement jostling the book she’d tucked up under her arm. Mason watched as a small piece of paper fell from between the book’s pages, fluttering softly to the floor, and instinct had him covering it with his boot, while he struggled with what to say. There were so many things he wanted to explain, things he needed to make her understand, but all he could come out with was a low, urgent, “Don’t run.”

“Get your hands off me. Right now,” she grunted, her voice raised, and the customers closest to them went quiet, all eyes turning toward them. A cold knot of fury…and something that felt strangely like pain twisted Mason’s stomach, but he forced his grip to ease, releasing her arm.

She backed away slowly, until she felt the door at her back. Hating the emotions that burned like acid in his gut, Mason watched her turn around and quickly push out into the brisk autumn weather.

She started running the second her feet hit the sidewalk… and never looked back.

Chapter 2

Clutching her book to her chest to keep it dry, Torrance Kimberly Watson all but stumbled into the softly lit, subtly incensed interior of Michaela’s Muse. Her heart pumped a chaotic beat, while her mind carried on a fierce debate with her grumbling libido—and despite her common sense, it looked as if her sex-deprived inner wild woman was winning.

“Like that should come as a shock,” she quietly snickered, groaning at her body’s continued reaction to the man she’d left behind in the restaurant. He was certainly a fine specimen of maleness, even if he had been off his rocker. “And not even those last few minutes of rain managed to cool you down, you slut,” she jokingly muttered under her breath, slipping out of her damp jacket and tossing it over her arm.

It was a depressing thought, but there was no denying that she’d been a long time without a boyfriend. Heck, she’d been a long time without a simple date. She was in her mid-twenties, meant to be living life to its fullest…and instead she’d practically become a nun. Not that a few short-lived relationships counted for much in the way of past experience, but then she knew she had high expectations when it came to that sort of thing. Expectations she doubted any man could ever meet.

No, Torrance understood the male species for what they were—and, more important, for what they weren’t. After dating one too many jerks who were as faithless as they were self-centered and shallow, she’d decided that being alone was better than being used—than settling for something she didn’t want—and she still stood by her decision. But, God, it wasn’t easy when dealing with the kind of temptation she’d had to endure today.

The guy at lunch had been like something out of her dreams. The really, really naughty ones, she thought with a small, crooked smile.

“Hey, Torry,” Michaela called out from the front of the store without looking up, absorbed in her current project.

“Oh, uh…hey, Mic,” she called back, suddenly realizing she’d been standing in the doorway, lost in her own little world. With a quick look around the store, Torrance saw that Mic had been busy digging into their latest delivery of new merchandise. A box containing paranormal titles and Tarot decks sat on the floor beside an ornate wooden bookshelf, while another that probably contained scented candles had been placed beside an antique display case.

Torrance had met Michaela Doucet five years ago, at a Tarot demonstration the Cajun was holding at a local bookstore, and they’d become instant, inseparable friends. Two years later, when Mic had opened the specialty shop, Torrance had been right by her side, and together they had made Michaela’s Muse an area favorite, with business growing every year.

She loved her job, and felt at home in the warm, soothing atmosphere, surrounded by friends who had become like family to her.

“Torry!” Michaela suddenly gasped in that slow Southern drawl of hers, making Torrance jump. She looked over to see Mic’s big, dark blue eyes blinking with surprise as she glanced up from the new Tarot decks she was organizing, getting her first good look at Torrance’s ruined shirt. “What happened? You look like you just came from an orgy with one of the undead!”

“Hah!” Torrance laughed out loud, causing Mic to give her a more critical look. “I told them you were going to say something like that when you saw my shirt,” she mumbled, feeling strange, as if her body were hot and cold all at once, her skin suddenly too tight for all the chaos going on inside of it. Man, that gorgeous freak-case at the café had really messed with her mind.

“And it wasn’t a what,” she added with a resigned sigh, suddenly giving a wry grin as she tossed her book and jacket on the beautiful bar that served as the store’s checkout counter, then stepped around its corner, moving to her customary place behind the gleaming antique. Knowing her tenacious best friend would pry the lunchtime fiasco out of her one way or another, the sanest course of action was to give in gracefully and save what little of her sanity she still had left. “It was a who.”

Michaela’s delicately sloped brows arched high on the smooth perfection of her brow as she moved around the display table draped with sapphire velvet. “Now that,” she mused, the black mass of her softly curling hair gleaming a deep, dark, midnight-blue, “sounds like something more than just another boring lunch at that corporate zombiefest you can’t get enough of.”

A steady drizzle of rain began pattering gently upon the roof as the latest storm moved overhead, its pattern soft and fleeting, like the featherlight dance of water fairies. Torrance normally found the sound of early-autumn showers soothing, but today the lilting chorus of raindrops only added to the prickling restlessness shivering beneath the surface of her skin. And it didn’t help that she was still reeling from the gorgeous stranger’s bizarre effect on her.

Hell, maybe she was coming down with something. Or maybe she was just so desperate for something more out of life, that she was becoming delusional. Had it gotten to the point where she was creating imaginary connections with mouthwatering hunks to make her feel less lonely? How…pathetic.

“Yoohoo, earth to Torry…” Michaela laughed, waving one slim palm in front of her face to get her attention.

“Oh, sorry. Um, I didn’t catch that last part.”

Mic gave her a quizzical look. “I just said that it sounds like you had an interesting lunch.”

“Yeah, it was interesting all right,” Torrance softly agreed.

Crossing her slim arms across her bountiful chest, Mic leaned one elbow against the edge of the intricately carved bar. The exquisite piece looked more like it belonged in a high-end antique shop, rather than a mystical haven for lovers of the paranormal. Like several of the store’s unusual antiques, the cherrywood bar had come from Mic’s grandmother’s mysterious Southern estate, buried somewhere deep in the bayou.

It was that bayou upbringing that had given Michaela her comfortable acceptance of the paranormal—an acceptance that Torrance envied. Truth be told, working at the shop had been a test of sorts for her, to see if she could get past her childhood phobias and embrace the paranormal community. And Torrance had done it, kind of like a person with a fear of sharks learning to enjoy the ocean. She loved her job, had a great rapport with their customers, and though it had taken some time, she’d eventually learned not to fear the unknown.

Well, most of the unknown. She still had a few phobias, brought on by her nightmares, but she was working to get over them. And Mic and her younger brother, Max, were helping.

“So what was he like?” the grinning brunette asked in a deliberately low whisper, probably meant to keep Max from overhearing.

A dreamy sigh escaped her lips before she could stop it, and Torrance suddenly heard herself saying, “Sex.”

Mic’s blue eyes went wide, and a throaty chuckle slipped smoothly past the Southerner’s rouged mouth. “That hot, huh?”

Torrance didn’t think her face could get any redder. Sex! Had she really just said that? Plopping down on her padded stool, she shook her head at the memory of the man who had turned her into a blathering idiot. Though she’d read the phrase a thousand times in romance novels, it had never actually happened to her—but he’d literally knocked her off her feet…and apparently knocked her brains out while he was at it. “Let’s just say that there should be a freaking law against men looking that good,” she groaned.

Mic’s mouth twisted into a sly smile. “Oh, honey, they can never look too good.”

“Well, he looked too good to me.” She sighed, remembering that dizzying moment of shock when their eyes had first connected. God, she was still feeling the vibrations from the jolt that had zapped her. Instant lust, something so warm and primitive, she’d barely been able to breathe through it. Heck, she could barely breathe now, just thinking about him. All she’d wanted was to slide up closer to him, then just a little closer, until they were pressed up against each other and she was surrounded by his animal heat—the dangerous, predatory wildness that had pulsed around him like a fiery glow while his deep, chocolate-brown gaze had promised things too tender and intimate to accept from any man, much less from a perfect stranger. Only…he hadn’t felt like a stranger, and that provocative combination of danger and shelter had been too devastating.

So devastating that it’d scared the hell out of her, sending her running faster than all that crazy talk of his could have ever done.

Michaela laughed softly into the charged silence. “That good, eh?”

Torrance nodded her head distractedly, then gave it a quick shake, determined to stop daydreaming about the tall, dark, wickedly handsome stranger. What had his friend called him? Mase? Mason? That was it! A strong, purely male name that fit him to perfection, just like those well-worn jeans that had so easily hugged his powerful thighs and the faded T-shirt deliciously molded to his muscular chest beneath the darker flannel.

Even his hair had been gorgeous. Not black, but a rich, lustrous brown with reddish streaks that turned auburn in the light. It had fallen somewhat shaggy around the strong, rugged angles of his arresting face, as if he didn’t get it cut often enough, but hadn’t decided to just let it grow. There was the slightest hint of a curl to it, the kind that meant you would snag your fingers a bit when you ran them through the silky mass. With a fierce compulsion, Torrance had wanted to bury her face in those windblown strands and breathe the scent of him into her lungs. It was hot and heady…and animallike. Full of mystery and the wild outdoors, natural and addictive.

Damn it, she was starting to drool just thinking about him, but then, she’d never been affected by a man like that before. In those first moments, she’d thought he was the most beautiful, mesmerizing thing she’d ever seen. Something hot and thick and deliciously wicked had passed between them—something Mic would have called a mystical connection—before his friend rained on the parade. She’d wanted to believe it’d been an accident, but something in his eyes had warned her that he wasn’t being totally honest about tripping her. Then he’d gone over the top, and she’d hightailed it outta there so fast she’d never even looked back.

Well, okay, so that wasn’t totally honest, either. On her way back to work, she’d argued with herself about her decision, uneasy over what felt uncomfortably like an irrevocable loss, as if she’d let something indelibly precious and infinitely significant just slip through her fingers. If things hadn’t gone so weird there at the end, she strongly suspected she would have followed the stud to the ends of the earth just to investigate that thing between them—to find out what it was really all about.

“Yeah, he was that good,” she finally said, “which means he was definitely too good to be true.”

Dropping her gaze to Torrance’s stained polo, Mic grinned. “So what happened?”

A soft laugh fell past her lips, surprising her, but then it had been funny as hell when the blond one had blurted it out. Well, maybe not funny at the time, but looking back on it, Torrance couldn’t help but see the humor in the situation. “He…uh, tripped me.”

Her best friend’s jaw dropped in shock. “He what?”

“He tripped me,” she explained with a shrug, knowing it sounded crazy. “I, uh, guess to get my attention.”

“Well, I’ve never heard that one before,” Mic admitted dryly, “but I’ll give him credit for an original approach.”

Feeling the raindrops beaded on her cheeks, Torrance swiped her cool hands over her face, pushing the wayward strands of damp hair back from her forehead. “I didn’t know he’d tripped me on purpose until his friend ratted him out. I thought I’d just been clumsy.”

“Some friend,” Mic snorted, raising her brows.

“Oh, you’d have liked him.” Torrance sent the other woman a teasing smile. “He was a total smart-ass.”

“Just my kind of guy,” the brunette drawled, rolling her eyes.

“Anyway, I swear, Mic, I almost swallowed my tongue when I first set eyes on him. He was…”

Her voice trailed off, and Mic prompted her with an interested, “Yeah?”

She struggled to find the right word, but in the end there was only one that would do. “Beautiful,” she said simply.

“As sweet as that is, I need more info,” Mic complained with a throaty laugh. “Come on, Shakespeare, and describe him for me. I’ve got to have a mental picture.”

Torrance sent the grinning brunette her best “as if” look. “So you can try to make love dolls of us? Don’t think I’m not on to you, Doucet?” she snorted. “I saw you looking through those new voodoo books that came in last week.”

Michaela’s eyes went wide with a feigned look of innocence. “I wouldn’t dream of doing something like that. I’m shocked you could even think it,” she muttered, just before she busted up giggling, and Torrance couldn’t help but join in with the Cajun’s infectious laughter.

“What’s all the giggling about?” a deep voice called out. “Did I miss something good?”

Both women looked over to see Max sticking his dark head around the corner of the employees’ door, his deep blue eyes dark and hazy, as if they’d disturbed one of his little catnaps. At nineteen, he was determined to pull his weight and help his sister get her fledgling business off the ground. Hurrying back to the shop after morning classes at the nearby community college, he managed the stockroom and updated the accounts in the afternoons, all before working the night shift as a security guard at the local hospital. Torrance got tired just thinking about the poor kid’s schedule.

“Hey, Max,” she called out over her shoulder, careful to keep her body turned to avoid another round of twenty questions about her clothing. Max took his man-of-the-shop duties seriously, treating Torrance with the same brotherly concern that he showed his sister. “Sorry we woke you up.”

“No big.” He smiled, running one hand through the rumpled black silk of his hair, his coloring nearly identical to his older sister. “I can catch up on my sleep later. One of the guards at the hospital needed to switch shifts with me, so I’ve got the night off.” He gave them a knowing look, his smile widening. “Guess I’ll let you two get back to your gossiping. Later.”

“Enjoy your night off,” she called back.

Mic waited the five seconds it would take Max to reach the back office, then leaned forward and whispered, “Now back to the gorgeous stud who swept you off your feet.” Her blue eyes sparkled with mischief as she waggled her brows. “Any plans for a hot date tonight?”

Knowing what was coming, Torrance shifted uneasily atop the stool. “Uh, no.”

The corners of Mic’s mouth turned down. “Why not? I know we have plans to catch that lecture at the museum later, but please tell me you didn’t let that stop you! I’ll wring your little redheaded neck if you told that guy no, Torrance! I swear on my…on my—”

Realizing this was only going to get worse, Torrance blurted out, “He never asked me out.”

Mic’s brows drew together, her gaze piercing. “Well, why not? And why didn’t you ask him out?” Tilting her head to the side, her stare took on that strange, unsettling quality that always gave Torrance the impression her closest friend was reading her mind—even though the Cajun claimed that wasn’t in the realm of her powers. “Exactly what happened, Torry?”

“Hey, I said he was gorgeous, not sane,” she mumbled, already feeling defensive.

Mic shook her head. “You didn’t even give him a chance, did you?” she groaned, her voice rough with frustration and disappointment. Unfortunately, Michaela knew all too well about her penchant for viewing men as fickle creatures; here today…gone tomorrow. It was a natural, knee-jerk reaction, after growing up with a mother who went through lovers like new outfits, always searching for one who would fit—the one who would finally stick around. Torrance had truly liked a few of them, wanting them to stay, though they never did. And some of them…some of them had simply scared the hell out of her. Her mother had died a few years ago in a car accident before ever finding a man who truly loved her, and Torrance had taken the lesson to heart.

“Give me a break, Mic. First his friend starts griping about him hitting on me, warning him about God only knows what, and then the guy starts giving me this crock about how it wasn’t safe there and I needed to leave with him! He’s lucky I didn’t call the cops,” she added roughly, hating that she could all too easily recognize the regret in her voice. He may have been one egg short of a dozen, but something about him had felt so uncomfortably…right.

“Damn it, Torrance,” Mic hissed, clearly upset. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

Trying to dispel the burning image of his slow, sinful smile, that wicked look of interest that had all but smoldered in those chocolate-brown eyes, she moaned, “Not now, Mic. Please.”

“I hate to see you drying up and wasting away.”

“Maybe I’m just tired of wasting my time on relationships that are never going to go anywhere. Been there, done that,” she muttered, hopping off the stool to grab her backpack up off the floor. Picking up the book she’d tossed on the bar, she slipped it into the front pouch, ignoring the knowing stare being drilled into her back. She knew Michaela was trying to get a “read” on her emotions. It was a special talent the Cajun possessed but seldom used, since she considered it an invasion of personal privacy. “And you can stop with your mental snooping right now, Mic.”

“You do know what’s going to happen, don’t you, Torry? You’re going to end up missing out on the right one, because you’re like a little ostrich with your head stuck in the sand. Get up off your rump and get out in the world, chère. Because if you don’t, life is going to have passed you by and you won’t have a clue what happened to it.”

“And is that what you’re doing?” she demanded, crossing her arms across her soup-splattered chest as she turned back to Michaela. With one hand, she pushed her glasses up on her nose the way a bull might drag his front hooves through the dirt before a charge. “Not to be rude, Mic, but I don’t think your social calendar has been any more active than mine recently.”

“Our situations are different, Torry, and you know that.” The fire slowly faded from Michaela’s eyes, her expression all but closing in on itself. “I took a chance on love and it didn’t work out,” she said flatly, her voice unusually devoid of emotion. “I made a fool of myself, but at least I took the chance. At least I went for what I wanted…or looking back, what I thought I wanted.”

“I’m sorry.” Torrance sighed, feeling like crap for lashing out at her. “Now I feel like an ass.”

“Hey, you’re not an ass, you’re my best friend.” Despite her light tone, Mic’s small smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You know I just want the best for you,” she confessed in a soft voice. “If you can find love, then maybe I’ll be able to find the courage to give a guy another chance.”

“You do know that Ross was an idiot, don’t you?” Torrance muttered, experiencing a familiar surge of rage at the thought of what the narcissistic jerk had put Michaela through. “A blind, stupid, raging idiot.”

“Of course I do.” Mic sent her a playful wink, but Torrance could tell that her friend was still suffering from the humiliating way things had worked out between her and the pretty-faced social climber.

“He’s not still calling you, is he?”

She curled her lip. “I keep telling him to leave me alone, only pretty boy can’t understand why I’m no longer interested. But enough about him.

“Since the storms will keep things slow in here this afternoon, why don’t you go on and head home so that you have time to shower and change,” Michaela said, changing the topic. “You are going to that lecture with me tonight, and while we’re there you’re going to tell me everything…everything…that happened today. There just might have been more there than you realize, Torry.”

Walking to the Tarot table, Michaela went back to work arranging the packs of cards along with a sparkling array of raw crystals, the shallow, rain-dappled light glinting softly against their uncut surfaces in a vivid display of color. “Jennifer is coming in at four for her shift, so I’ll be able to get out of here a little early,” she explained while Torrance rounded the bar, pulling her jacket on, then slinging her backpack over her right shoulder. “I’ll be by to pick you up at five.”

“Thanks, Mic,” she called back, heading out the front door, the tinkling of the door chimes following her out into the misty gray of the day. The rain had let up enough that it now resembled more of a refreshing mist, and Torrance set off down the street enjoying the cool, damp breeze against her face, the clean smell of the outdoors lingering beneath the more acrid scents of the city. She walked at a steady, energetic pace, her eyes taking in the beauty of the historical architecture in that part of town, the weathered, yet well-kept facades framed by towering willows and oaks, their ancient roots bulging beneath the sidewalk, as if seeking sunshine through the heavy, cracked concrete.

She used the time to clear her mind—or at least tried to— but two blocks into her four-block walk, it hit her. A strange, unsettling sense of not being alone, which was odd, seeing as how she wasn’t. In the garden ahead, an elderly woman in a sun hat knelt among an assortment of perennials, while on the other side of the street a young boy walked his beagle alongside his dad, both of them holding hands and smiling. The sun was beginning to peek briefly through the rain clouds, and up ahead a rainbow formed across the distant silver-blue of the sky, perfect and pristine in its beauty. And yet, something felt…not right. The feeling grew, oddly disturbing, and she nearly tripped on an uneven bit of sidewalk, even though she knew this path well enough to walk it in her sleep.

Clutching her backpack, Torrance sent a furtive look over her shoulder, but there was nothing there. And yet, the feeling wouldn’t go away, reminding her of the nightmares that she’d suffered from since childhood. Vivid, terrifying dreams in which monsters stalked her, their warm breath on the back of her neck…before they caught her. The familiar feelings of helplessness, of vulnerability, coated her skin, sinking in through her pores until she felt steeped in them. By the time she reached her apartment building, her lungs hurt from holding her breath and her pulse beat out a hammering tempo that nearly jarred her brain. Moving quickly, she used her key to open her front door. Once inside her apartment, she immediately slid the chain into place.

Leaning her forehead against the cool wood, Torrance let her backpack slip off her shoulder, all the while struggling to get her lungs working properly again. Straightening up, she turned and looked carefully at her living room, seeking comfort in its soothing atmosphere. Mic had helped her to create the perfect ambience, a relaxing blend of bold wood and soft, inviting fabrics, with an old Persian rug covering the dark hardwood floors and scented candles on nearly every surface. Bookshelves lined the walls, while jewel-colored throw pillows covered the oversize love seat and matching chair. Hidden in an oriental-looking cabinet was a small TV set, which she used to indulge her weakness for all the CSI shows as well as Letterman, while a low table under the window held her speaker system for her iPod and her new laptop.

This was her space, her little getaway, her private corner of the world, and Torrance took a deep breath through her nose…waiting for the panic to ease. She counted the seconds off slowly, willing that feeling of safety that she always found here to come. But there was nothing. Nothing but that bitter lump of fear sitting in the back of her throat, churning her stomach into a knot.

“Get a grip,” she muttered, straightening her spine. Damn it, she wasn’t going to let her overactive imagination spook her out of her own apartment! Marching like a zealous militant, she went into the kitchen, poured herself a tall glass of sweetened iced tea, and then crossed back through the living room to the single bedroom. Her slightly slanted blinds allowed a narrow glance at the now swollen sky, a sharp crack of resonating thunder heralding the arrival of another storm. Ah, she’d made it just in time, she thought, forcing a small smile.

Walking to her dresser, she studied her pale reflection in the beveled antique mirror on the wall while slipping the clasps free on her small silver hoops, then unfastened her slim watch and slid off her bracelets. A refrain from one of the Celtic CDs Mic played throughout the day in the store found its way into her mind, and she began humming softly, determined to ignore that lingering unease, until she felt a cold, clammy chill crawl over her skin, her palms going damp and hot.

Something’s wrong, she thought dully, experiencing the oddest sense of viewing the situation from afar. The feeling tightened, sharpening, until she feared that she wasn’t alone, even though she’d seen no one when she’d walked into the room. But on the opposite side of her bed, just behind her, was the closet—and she couldn’t remember if the door had been open or closed when she’d entered the room…and was suddenly too afraid to look. Had she remembered to lock all the windows earlier? Damn it, living in a quiet neighborhood had made her careless, because she couldn’t remember checking them before she’d left for work that morning!

“There’s no such thing as monsters,” she muttered, determined to stay calm, but every terrifying scene from every nightmare she’d ever suffered began playing through her mind. A deep, bone-jarring tremor shook her body like a frail, fragile leaf caught in the destructive fury of a storm, and she watched in a numb daze as her hand lifted, reaching toward the surface of her dresser where she kept her mail. Her fingers touched the cold, hard metal of the antique letter opener Mic had given her last Christmas, and as they curled around the silver handle, she heard the telltale creak of a floorboard. A sickening feeling slipped through her, like something sticky and wet sliding over her skin, sending her stomach into a roiling spin. Her breath stopped, suspended, held tight in her lungs as she raised her wide eyes and caught the reflection in the mirror above her dresser.

It was behind her, at the foot of her bed, visible over her left shoulder. Tall, over seven feet at least, with fangs and fur—and a head that resembled the terrifying shape of a wolf.

She opened her mouth to scream, but before the bloodcurdling cry had clawed its way out of her throat, the beast was on her, knocking the dagger-shaped opener to the ground. It twisted her easily, taking her to the floor, where it slowly looked her over out of dark, lifeless eyes that shone as blank and black as a doll’s. Despite her frantic struggles, long, lethal-tipped claws took possession of her wrists, lifting her arms up high over her head, stretching her out beneath its hard, oppressively heavy body straddling her thighs. An overpowering combination of animal musk, pine-scented forests and a sharp acidic odor filled her head, and Torrance screamed again, if she’d ever stopped screaming—but she couldn’t hear anything over the terrified roaring of her heart, unsure if the sounds of her horror were trapped in her throat or shattering against the walls, drowned out by her heartbeat.

“Well, well, aren’t you a tasty little piece?” it drawled in a deep, guttural voice, the words awkward as they made their way past the muzzled shape of its mouth, fangs gleaming whitely in the graying light of her bedroom. It almost looked as if it were smiling at her, and for some reason, that scared her more than anything.

“Who the hell are you?” she sobbed, fear making her own voice sound demonic, deep and rasping and raw.

“My sweet, sweet Little Red,” it laughed roughly, its warm breath pelting her in the face, humid and hot and sickly. “Didn’t your new half-breed warn you about me?”

“Who? Warn me about what?” she cried, paralyzed within its powerful grip. It held her far too easily, and the cold, painful knowledge of imminent death settled heavily into her gut.

“Don’t you know the reason for a Bloodrun, little human?”

“A Bloodrun?” she grunted, so sick with fear she felt nauseous. “What are you talking about?”

“Your new boyfriend tracks down my kind and kills us like animals, simply because we accept what nature meant for us. Because we’re not afraid to embrace our natural hungers.” It leaned closer, the tip of its dark muzzle all but touching her nose, and this time she knew it was smiling as those black, shiny lips pulled back with malicious humor, its mouthful of razor-sharp teeth promising untold horror. “You’re not Dillinger’s normal taste when it comes to his playthings,” it rasped, tilting its massive head to the side as it studied her out of those emotionless eyes. Leaning closer, she felt the wet roughness of its tongue lick up the side of her throat before curling playfully around the shell of her left ear. She whimpered, hating the pitiful sound, and the monster laughed softly as it whispered in her ear, “No, you’re not his usual taste at all. But I think I’ll enjoy eating you all the same, honey girl.”

Chapter 3

They’re real…they’re real…they’re real…

Torrance chanted the silent refrain over and over within the thick, black haze of terror clouding her mind, while the werewolf’s oppressive weight held her down. She knew she should fight, struggle, scream…but after hearing those last words, all she could do was lie there beneath the monster, paralyzed by fear. It spread through her limbs like an intravenous drug, numbing her body while her heart pounded to a painful, resonating beat that threatened to rupture her chest. A lifetime of nightmares, of horrific images of blood and pain, fangs and razor-sharp claws, crept over the surface of her body like a spider, tangling her in its insidious web.

“The more I lick right here,” that gruff, garbled voice chuckled with malicious pleasure against her throat, the monster’s rank breath meaty and humid as it reached her nose, “the richer the scent of your fear grows.”

No. No. No. This can’t be happening. Can’t be happening. Can’t be happening.

Its massive head shifted, muscled, heavily-furred shoulders bunching as the creature moved down her body, dragging its mouth against the upper part of her chest revealed in the now-gaping neck of her shirt, torturing her with the teasing slide of its teeth. “I’ll tell you what,” it taunted, long, lethal claws clicking ominously against the hardwood floor, heavily padded palms damp with sweat where they gripped her wrists in a biting, bruising hold that numbed her fingers. “Why don’t we have a little fun and see just how scared we can get you?”

How scared? She was already filled with terror. The realization that she was a coward burned in her belly like acid, but no matter how fiercely her pride raged against it, Torrance couldn’t throw off the smothering wave of fear.

And he knew it.

Smiling, the werewolf cocked his head to the side as he studied her, his nostrils flaring as he breathed in her scent. “So timid, little one. That just isn’t going to do. I enjoy it so much more when my meals have a little life in them.”

He laughed at his own joke…and Torrance squeezed her eyes shut, silent tears tracking across her skin.

Oh yes, they were real. The monsters from the dark recesses of her mind truly did exist. Not just in her head, but in the flesh. She had often wondered—no, worried—after the things she’d seen and heard around Michaela’s Muse, but had never really believed. Movies…tabloid headlines…books. The legends were everywhere, for anyone paying attention. And her mother had been one of the biggest believers of all, dragging her daughter off to every horror movie that hit the theaters…always rambling on about mankind’s inability to accept the existence of something more powerful than themselves.

As she became older, Torrance began to realize that her mother had looked to the paranormal as a means of escaping the disappointing realities of life. And in the process, she’d raised her daughter on an unusual diet for a child—one that consisted of vampires and werewolves and witches. But instead of Michaela’s healthy understanding of the paranormal culture, Torrance had only known the horror, the Hollywood sensationalism. She had learned to fear early on, and though she’d come to understand so much with Mic’s help…there were still some issues she just couldn’t shake, no matter how hard she tried.

Her nightmares were one of them.

You should have listened to your dreams. They were telling you the truth, Torrance…warning you…just like Mom told you they were.

All those years spent thinking the poor woman was insane… and she’d been right all along. But Torrance had never allowed herself to believe…and now, on the verge of death, she didn’t have any other choice.

Mason cast another hard look at the slip of paper, reading the printed name for the hundredth time.

Torrance Watson.

He ran his thumb over the letters, once…twice, then slipped the wrinkled pay stub back into the pocket of his flannel shirt, sounding out the individual syllables beneath his breath. Torrance. An unusual name, but then, she was clearly an unusual woman. The kind of woman who could turn a guy’s world upside down. Who could destroy him.

If you were smart, you’d get your ass out of here and forget you ever saw her.

True, and considering he wasn’t moving, Mason could only assume he wasn’t nearly as clever as he’d thought. Either that or he was thinking with the wrong head.

He slumped in the driver’s seat of his Tahoe, a cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger of the hand hanging out his open window, and turned his attention back to the quaint Victorian that had been renovated into apartments. After Torrance had run out on him at the restaurant, he’d sent Jeremy to get the SUV and followed her on foot to her work, using that mouthwatering scent to track her, then again as she headed home. Once there, he’d called Jeremy on his cell and told him where to find him. Now they sat in the cab of the Tahoe, parked on her street, watching for any sign of Simmons, while Mason struggled to figure out what the hell to do next.

He didn’t know what he’d been thinking, acting the way he had when he found her. But he’d been blindsided by too much…everything. Emotion. Hunger. Possessiveness. The gut-twisting need to keep her safe—and the knowledge that Simmons would come after her if he could. All of which had led to him acting like a cross between a mad stalker and a complete asshole. No wonder she’d run from him. That he could understand.

What he couldn’t get his head around was why he was here.

If it were simply a matter of safety, Mason knew he could have called in Pallaton and Reyes, another Bloodrunning team, and put them on her for protection. But he hadn’t done that. Instead, here he was, playing watchdog for a woman who should have had him running scared for the simple fact that he didn’t want her.

Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that, jackass…and maybe you’ll start believing it.

Muttering a foul, four-letter word, Mason slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel, hating it. All of it. What kind of sick joke was nature playing on his ass? Anyone who knew him knew the last thing he wanted was a mate. Especially a small, fragile human one. Jesus.

He’d been reminding himself of that fact for the past five minutes…and yet he couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t let her go. Couldn’t make himself turn the bloody key and drive away, while he still had the chance. The past didn’t seem to matter. Not the lessons he’d learned or the vows he’d made to never end up in Dean’s shoes. Within moments of finding her, the past eight years were obliterated, wiped clean, and Mason found himself as pathetically hooked as the rest of them.

Shit. He scrubbed one hand down his face, then took another long drag on the cigarette while a sharp crack of lightning lit the sky, dark waves of clouds rolling in, smothering out the pale streams of sunlight that had briefly broken through the damp, depressing grayness of the day.

Beside him, Jeremy crossed his arms and let out a loud, jaw-cracking yawn. “What about lunch?” the blond asked. “We still haven’t eaten and I’m starving, man.”

Mason stared at the apartment building, quietly cursing the thunder that made it impossible to hear—even with his heightened abilities. And if the rain got heavier, it would ruin his ability to track her scent when she left. “You can take off and grab some fast food,” he murmured. “There’s got to be something around here within walking distance.”

“Great,” Jeremy grunted. “Do you know how much fat that stuff contains?”

“We burn more calories than we can ever worry about, so what the hell do you care?”

“It’s my arteries I’m thinking about,” his partner grumbled. “And what about Simmons? We are still on the hunt, man, which means we’re supposed to be tracking his sadistic ass down.”

Like he needed reminding. They’d been hunting the bastard ever since they found the mutilated body of a young prostitute a few weeks ago, dumped on pack land. Anthony Simmons’s foul scent had been all over the victim, and he and Jeremy had been assigned the Bloodrun to kill the Silvercrest werewolf.

Now it was a race against the clock to catch him and eliminate the threat, before Simmons chose yet another victim. The thought twisted his insides. Mason had no doubt the rogue would exploit any vulnerability he could find and use it to strike back at the ones hunting him. His kind always did. And if he’d been watching them today, and witnessed his reaction to Torrance, he now had the perfect opportunity.

Mason couldn’t let that happen. To make sure Simmons didn’t get near her, he and Jeremy would keep an eye on things here, while Pallaton and Reyes watched the shop where she worked.

“We’ll find Simmons,” Mason rasped, grinding out his cigarette in the ashtray. “But this takes precedence right now. We have to make sure she stays safe.”

Jeremy let his head fall back against the headrest, his hands crossed over his stomach, fingers drumming repetitively against his abs. “You do realize you’ve probably landed her right in the middle of a Bloodrun, don’t you?”

“If he touches her,” Mason grunted, his voice rough as he lit up a new smoke and took a deep drag, then slowly exhaled, “he dies. He knows that.”

“That’s why he’s got nothing to lose, Mase. His death sentence has already been signed. His last breath may come tonight or a month from now, but one thing Simmons understands with crystal clarity is that he’s already dead. Considering how much he hates you he may think it’s worth it, just to screw with your mind.”

“If he wants her, he’s going to have to get through us first.”

“So then we’re like a coupla white knights, eh?” Jeremy drawled, snuffling a soft laugh under his breath. “Willing to risk our lives to slay the dragons in order to protect a damsel in distress? It’s the stuff of legends, Mason, my boy.” The irreverent blond shot him a smart-ass grin. “We should be knighted or made saints or whatever the hell they do for selfless heroes.”

Heroes? Not likely. And he sure as hell wasn’t a saint.

With a heavy sigh, Mason hunched his shoulders, cast a cautious glance up at the flickering sky…and waited for the lightning to strike.

Another loud, jarring crack of thunder sounded in the distance, lashing against the oppressive silence of the afternoon, heralding the next storm as the now-muggy air became charged with static. The shadows in Torrance’s room deepened, creeping into the corners like watchful eyes, enshrouding their bodies in an ominous, desolate gray, while the werewolf did his best to scare her to death. That is, if he didn’t just kill her first.

“You have no idea how badly I’ve been looking forward to this day, Little Red.” The hulking head moved closer, the cold tip of his glossy nose touching her own, those black, bottomless eyes staring from only inches away, so close that Torrance could see the short, individual hairs rimming the blackish skin of his eyelids. It was eerie as hell, the way he looked trapped between a wolf’s form and that of a man’s, his long, heavily muscled length covered in coarse, black fur; arms, legs and wide torso bulging with brutish strength, while his head had taken on the true shape of the animal, complete with terrifying muzzle and fangs. Where once human hands and feet had been, coarse pads now spread over his palms and soles, fingers and toes elongated into gnarled digits that curved into sinister, deadly claws.

“Now that it’s here,” he mused, rolling his hips against her lower body, “I just can’t decide what I’d like to do first. Rip out your tender little throat? Or should I reward myself with a tempting go at this delicate little body instead? One that rips you apart inside—that leaves you broken and bleeding when I’m done with you.” He paused for a moment, silent and still, looking as if he were thinking the repulsive idea through, the way a director might visualize a particularly compelling scene within his mind. “Wouldn’t that make for some good storytelling when I get around to ending your half-breed’s life? I don’t imagine Mason likes to share his playthings.”

Torrance felt her eyes go wide, unable to believe what he’d just said.

Mason? Mason! The psycho hunk from the café? Oh, no. No way. My luck can’t possibly be this bad!

But it was all clicking into place now. That crazy friend of his had said something about putting her in danger. Damn it, she’d known that gorgeous face was too good to be true. And now look at her. Not even her mother had been this unlucky when it came to men!

A new feeling began seeping into her system—a cool, slow-burning fury that filled her from the bottom up, tingling in her fingers and toes, burning at the backs of her eyes. The monster licked a disgusting path up the side of her face, and she jolted, sensation rushing back into her limbs as he pressed his muzzle to her ear. “Yeah, I’m going to enjoy sharing the gory details of our time together with Dillinger,” he growled. “Almost as much as I’m going to enjoy making you beg for mercy.”

Torrance suddenly heard herself make a tsking sound, her upper lip curling with disgust. “Didn’t your mom ever teach you not to play with your food?”

He shifted to stare into her eyes, and grinned at what he found there. “Oh-ho, so there is a little life in her, after all. Goodie.”

Oh, God, what the hell was she doing? Before she could figure it out, he leaned closer, pelting her face with his rank breath. “And to answer your question, my mother was a weak bitch who betrayed my father and died in another man’s bed.” He smiled again, making her cringe as the hazy shafts of light stealing into her room caught the dull gleam of fangs set within pink gums. “The idiots never even saw him coming. Dad told me she was still screaming from her climax when he sliced her throat open.”

“Jesus,” Torrance croaked hoarsely, knowing the scene he’d just described was going to play front and center in her nightmares from now on—if she lived long enough to have another nightmare.

“He took a souvenir to remind him of her, and I’m thinking that maybe I should do the same. Killing Dillinger’s new woman is certainly something I’ll want to remember. But what should it be?” he murmured, looking her over with slow deliberation. “A lock of hair? A…finger, perhaps? It’ll be fun, rubbing it in his smug face that I had you. Especially when he wanted you. I could tell. Oh yeah, he wanted you bad. But I’m the one who’s going to get you.”

He lowered his head back over her chest, watching her watch him, and let his long candy-pink tongue slip toward her breast, swiping at her cloth-covered nipple. Torrance grimaced, squirming, a sickening icy fear fisting in her gut, before settling lower into those deep, inner feminine places, and wrathful frustration surged through her.

She could feel it building…building…and in the next moment a loud, endless roar filled her ears, echoing through her brain…and with a stunning jolt of shock, she realized that it was her! “Get…off…me!” she shouted, her rage taking hold, gathering like a coming storm, mounting in her taxed muscles until she felt like she’d explode.

Those black, vapid eyes, empty and cruel like a shark’s, narrowed, slick black upper lip curling as he bared long, vicious incisors. “That’s it,” he whispered with chilling satisfaction, leaning so close that he almost touched her mouth. “But maybe we should keep it down a bit.” He stroked the side of her face with one claw-tipped hand, his cold eyes traveling over her features, one by one. “Just think. Even now, he could be out there, watching for a sign of you. He thinks he’s so clever, but I got to you first and he doesn’t even know it. Now I can have you…then leave you like leftovers for him to find. Sweet, isn’t it?”

“You’re disgusting.” She spat in his face.

“And you’re terrified,” he said with a soft, guttural laugh. “In case you didn’t get it the first time, fear really does it for me, honey. The more frightened you get, the more satisfying this bit of payback is going to be.”

“Payback?”

“A long time ago, Dillinger took something from me, and I’ve been waiting for the chance to return the favor. Now that it’s here, I plan to enjoy every moment of it.”

Sitting back in a sudden shift of movement, he released her wrists as he straddled her, his brutal claws reaching for her jeans. Rage, sizzling and violent, raced through her blood, and her body instantly went on autopilot as survival instincts finally kicked in. Moving faster than she’d ever thought she could, Torrance bent her knees and planted her feet flat on the ground. Gritting her teeth, she thrust her hips up, hardly moving his solid weight, but jarring him enough to shift his body to the left. She immediately twisted in the opposite direction, lunging to the side as she pulled her right leg free, then struck out, knocking his hips off center. At the same time, Torrance flattened her hand as she slammed it against the floor, frantically searching for the fallen letter opener that he’d knocked from her grip.

Come on…come on…come on… Yes!

The second her fingers touched smooth silver, Torrance grabbed at it, swinging her arm around, aiming for his mangy ruff and sending the cool metal sinking through the tough skin at the side of his throat. An inhuman roar surged up from his chest as she used every ounce of her strength to shove the blade deep. She twisted her wrist, and his body jerked above her, writhing, knocking the breath from her lungs as he fell forward and slammed her back into the hardwood floor. One powerful arm swiped at her face, sending her glasses flying as she jerked to the side, just missing the lethal slash of his claws but smacking the back of her skull hard against the base of her dresser. Stars exploded before her eyes, glittering and bright against the graying edges of her vision.

“Arrrgh,” she grunted, gnashing her teeth, using the flat of her palm to push the letter opener deeper, ignoring the impulsive urge to let go when blood began pumping from the wound, pouring over her hand in a slick wash of crimson. Shoving with her leg, Torrance nudged him farther away, the gurgling sounds dripping from his muzzle monstrous and grotesque, like something torn straight from the depths of hell.

“God, just die already,” she screamed, the deafening cry drowned out by the harsh, outraged shouts she could suddenly hear coming from the outer hallway.

The wolf’s face lifted at the commotion, nostrils flaring as he threw back his head and unleashed an unearthly howl that rattled the doors and windows, the letter opener now fully imbedded in his muscular neck. A crash sounded in the living room, followed by the sound of running feet, heavy and pounding, moving at full speed, and then flashes of a hard, strangely familiar figure as something solid and fast slammed into the beast and sent him hurtling to the side, freeing her. Torrance tried to draw in a huge breath, her lungs burning from lack of oxygen. At the same time she struggled to focus on the chaotic scene, but her head was throbbing and everything was happening too fast.

Curling onto her side, she pulled her legs up into the fetal position and tried again to focus on the blurry shadows crashing around her room. Three twisting figures were fighting with inhuman strength, growling…snarling…biting out virulent curses as they destroyed her furniture. Bodies slammed into one another with preternatural force as they battled for dominance, coarse grunts followed by the sickening sounds of crushed cartilage and tearing flesh. Torrance squinted, certain she had just seen a human arm sporting an amazingly wicked set of claws but couldn’t hold the image. A quick, sharp cracking noise, like a snapping bone, came from the other side of her bed, and her stomach churned at the revolting sound.

Then the sound of broken glass hit her ears, followed by a familiar voice shouting into the small alley between her apartment building and the neighboring one. “That’s right, run now, but next time we find you, you’re dead!”

Torrance blinked against the salty sting of sweat running into her eyes, and for the first time she got a clear look at her rescuer’s face as he dropped to his knees beside her, one unsteady, blood-splattered hand reaching out to check her pulse at the side of her throat.

“It’s you!” she gasped, sounding groggy, positive she could hear the other one, who had shouted out her window, snickering off somewhere on the other side of the room.

“Shh. Just take it easy,” he rasped, staring down at her, his expression fierce and brutally hard with lingering traces of violence and rage, a warm glow burning in his oddly lit gaze. Animal ferocity, predatory and wild, rode the long lines of his body, and there was something different about his eyes, she thought hazily. They seemed more golden than brown, smoldering with a primitive, provocative intensity that made her feel…uncomfortably sensitive—and suddenly Torrance was aware of being cradled against the strongest chest she’d ever felt.

Oh…whoa.

Hot, comforting heat surrounded her, pressing her against solid muscle and strong sinew outlined beneath a sweat-damp T-shirt. Torrance wanted to moan at the feel of all that hard, unyielding masculinity holding her close, but bit back the sound. Instead, she focused at first on trying not to pass out, and then on the voices, listening to the rich, husky tones, the rhythm and pitch of their speech patterns, so rugged and male. Trying not to groan from the pain in her head, she lay silent as the one named Jeremy spoke to the man holding her within the strong, possessive circle of his arms.

“I took a quick look around the building, but there’s not a soul around right now,” Jeremy was saying. “Kinda creepy, but at least there won’t be any cops on their way, and I’ve got her door back up on the frame. A good breeze would knock it over, but it will fool anyone who might pass by until we can get outta here.”

Strong, infinitely capable fingers pushed her hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ears, her braid a pitiful wreck. “It’ll have to do for now,” he rasped.

“How’s she doing?”

Callused fingertips stroked gently over her forehead, across the tops of her cheekbones, the careful touch so at odds with the raw-edged power she could feel pulsing off him in hot, potent waves. “She’s pretty shaken up, but Simmons didn’t bite her,” he growled, that deep, whispery baritone ragged and hoarse. “The bastard must have been here all along, waiting for her when she got home. How the hell did he track her down so fast?”

“Come on, you know what kind of connections he’s got. If she frequents that restaurant often enough, he could have slunk in there after we left and had her name like that,” the blond argued, snapping his fingers—an unmistakable thread of frustration lacing his words. “Then once Simmons knew who she was, all he’d have to do is hack her information off the Net. The whole thing could have happened in minutes.”

Mason made some low, noncommittal sound deep in his throat, sounding unconvinced as he ran his big, warm hands over her body. Torrance tried to control her shiver and failed, while his delicious scent, like something wicked and sinful that she could almost taste on her tongue, filled her head, crowding out the raw smells of meat and blood and fear.

There was something wrong here, she knew, but she mentally shoved the irritating thought away, her body finding too much enjoyment being in his arms. If she thought too hard about things, she would have to move…and that just wouldn’t do.

“There’s no such thing as privacy anymore, man.” Through her barely parted lashes, Torrance watched Jeremy plant his hands on his hips and glare at Mason. “Who knows what he used. At this point, it doesn’t really matter, Mase. We’ve got a much bigger problem on our hands. It’s daylight outside,” the blond muttered, gesturing at the pale light beyond the broken window. “He fully changed without night. You know what this means?”

“It means this isn’t your run-of-the-mill Bloodrun,” Mason grunted, still checking her for injuries. A hot, rough palm traveled up her side, feeling her ribs, coming deliciously close to the outer curve of one breast. If it didn’t still hurt to breathe, she’d have shifted, just a bit, and gotten that strong hand where she wanted it.

“Yeah, among other things,” his friend bit out. “It means there’s something a hell of a lot bigger than meat lust going on here, partner. No way in hell should someone Simmons’s age be able to dayshift into his full form, even if he is as friggin’ pure-blood as they come. And why couldn’t we smell him out on the street? If we hadn’t heard her scream, we wouldn’t have even known he was here and he was practically sitting under our noses.”

“I don’t know what’s going on with his scent. I can smell him in here, but the musk is lighter than it should be and there’s something sharp mixed with it that’s burning my nose.” His hand paused as he turned his head to look toward the blond. “And I don’t care when he can change, or how goddamn powerful he is. When we finally get him, he’s going to pay for touching her.”

Jeremy remained silent for a moment, and then she heard, “Are you going to explain to her what we are?”

What we are? What did that…

In the next instant, forgotten images came rushing back as Torrance suddenly recalled the forgotten piece of the puzzle.

Before Mason could answer Jeremy’s question, Torrance scrambled off his lap, her movements awkward and uncoordinated as terror rushed through her, weakening her limbs.

“I already know what you are.” The hoarse words left her lips on a soft whoosh of air, barely more than a whisper—and the realization she’d been trying to push away came roaring back, blindsiding her with the force of a kick to the chest.

Mason watched her with a calm intensity as she scooted away on her hands and feet, crab-crawling until her back pressed up against a corner of the room. “Do you now?” he asked quietly, moving with the sleek power of a predator as he gained his feet.

“How did you find me?” She could hear the panic grabbing at her throat, making her voice sound hollow and husky. “What are you doing here?”

At the sound of her fear, his expression closed, like a veil being pulled over a window, filtering out the light. “I doubt you’re going to believe me, but I followed you to keep you safe. I was watching the building when I heard you scream.”

“I saw claws,” Torrance said shakily, pulling her gaze away from him to cast a quick look around the room, unable to believe the destruction. Her once cozy, comfortable bedroom now resembled a slaughterhouse—her white bedding a gory sea of red, a blood-spattered closet door hanging at an odd angle…like a broken limb, window and blinds broken where the monster had made his escape. “You’re a goddamn werewolf, aren’t you? Just like him!”

His head tilted a fraction as he studied her, dark eyes impossible to read. “Not exactly like him.”

“But those were your claws that I saw, right?” she all but shouted, fisting her blood-covered hands at her sides. “When you were fighting off…whatever his name was.”

“Simmons. His name is Anthony Simmons. And they could have been either mine or Jeremy’s.” His broad shoulders lifted in a casual shrug, as if they were discussing nothing more controversial than the weather, when her entire world had just been turned on its head. “That’s about all of the change we can manage when it’s still daylight. Not even Simmons is meant to be able to fully shift like that during the day.”

“They were yours,” she stated flatly, remembering the gray flannel shirt. All but shaking apart inside, she sneered, “You guys normally only change at night? Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Dark heat flared in the rich brown of his eyes as they narrowed, pinning her in place. “I’m not interested in making you feel better. I’m interested in keeping you alive.”

A sharp sound of disbelief jerked from her throat. “And I’m supposed to believe that?”

“You would, if you’d just calm down for a moment and listen to what your gut is telling you. I’m not the bad guy here. I’m the only thing that can keep you safe.”

“Keep me safe by scaring me to death?” she returned, her voice trembling. “I don’t think so.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you earlier, and it isn’t my intention to scare you now, Torrance.” He sighed. “I just had to make sure you were going to be okay.”

With a little start of surprise, she realized what he’d just said. “How did you learn my name?”

Reaching into the pocket on the front of his flannel shirt, Mason pulled out the pay stub she’d been using as a bookmark, holding it up between his first and second fingers.

Torrance looked from the slip of paper to his face.

“It fell out of your book when you pulled away from me at the café.” He watched her for a moment, then quietly said, “You felt it, too, didn’t you?”

Torrance shook her head, but she couldn’t deny that there was a strange truth to his roughly spoken words. Her gut was telling her…something—but she refused to listen.

Mason stepped forward, his expression turning fierce when he saw her flinch. “Damn it, don’t do this. I know you feel it, Torrance. Don’t goddamn lie about it.”

“You’re wrong,” she whispered, even though she knew the look in her eyes betrayed her, revealing the intense, almost painful longing that she couldn’t hide…couldn’t explain or rationalize, considering she was terrified of him. “I’m sorry. Believe me, you have no idea how sorry—but I…I just can’t do this.”

His head fell forward and he seemed to be staring hard at the floor, lost in thought. Several tense moments passed, and when he looked back toward her, he kept his voice gentle, saying, “Everyone’s afraid of werewolves, honey. At first.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Her voice shook, despite her efforts to sound strong. “I’m not just afraid. I’m terrified. I’ve…ever since I was a little girl…nightmares…always. I’m… I can’t… I can’t do this.”

Mason took another step closer to her, stopping when he saw the way her body tensed. “You can’t go off on your own again,” he said quietly, his tone urgent. “He’s not going to stop until he’s got you.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Torrance, please listen to me. There’s something going on here…a connection between us that’s too damn complicated to explain right now. But if Simmons so much as suspects it, he won’t give up. He’ll keep coming after you.”

She blinked, trying hard not to cry. “Why me?”

He stared at her, his gaze moving softly over her face, before settling back on her eyes. She felt as if he could see straight into her—as if he could get into her head and witness firsthand the chaos going on inside. “Because he’ll use you to get to me.”

Pulling her knees into her chest, she flicked her gaze between him and Jeremy. “And what the hell does he want with you?”

“It’s because of who I am. Because of what I am,” he explained gruffly, hunching down in front of her, his arm resting on his bent knee. “My job is to hunt down and kill Lycans like Simmons. Rogue werewolves. That’s what we do. It’s called Bloodrunning, and Jeremy is my partner.”

“What do you mean rogue werewolves?” she asked, inching farther away from him. He shot a questioning look toward Jeremy, and she could tell from his harsh expression that he didn’t want to explain. “Damn it, you got me into this! I deserve to know what’s happening.”

“Rogues are wolves who have gone over,” he told her, breathing out a rough sigh.

Her stomach flipped, making her queasy. “What do mean ‘gone over’?”

“They give in to their darker hungers and hunt humans, using them as food. Once they start, the power…the rush they feel from the kill and the feeding is addictive. They have no conscience and they have no fear. Now that Simmons has set his sights on you, he won’t stop until he’s got you. That’s why we need to get you somewhere safe before he comes back. Next time he attacks, you can bet he won’t be alone.”

Torrance shook her head, a panicked, hysterical laugh bubbling up from her chest. “Somewhere safe? You’ve got to be joking!”

Mason stood and ran both hands back through his hair, then shoved them deep in his jeans’ pockets. Locking his jaw, he said, “Do I look like I’m joking?”

“No, but then you don’t look like a…a—”

“Monster?” he supplied helpfully, arching one dark brow at her. Though he tried to cover it, Torrance could see the quick flash of pain that cut through his warm gaze—almost as if she’d somehow hurt him. Leaning against the door frame, Jeremy muttered something foul under his breath, and she felt her cheeks go warm with an uncomfortable wave of shame.

“That’s not what I was going to say,” she lied, hating the emotional knot in her stomach. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Why not?” Mason asked, pinning her with a hard, intense stare. “Your thoughts are written plain on your face, Tor. I’ve never met anyone before who was so easy to read.”

She lifted her chin, hating that he could see into her so easily. “You don’t know me.”

He snorted. “Yeah, and you don’t know me. But that isn’t stopping you from being judgmental as hell.”

He was twisting her words around, confusing her, and it was too hard to think when she was still so terrified. And yet there was something strangely…comforting about the arrogant giant. Again, that odd sense of rightness overtook her, and Torrance struggled to throw off its deceptive allure.

What the hell was wrong with her? Had she lost her mind?

“I need… I think I’m going to be sick,” she muttered, pressing her blood-covered hands to her stomach as she surged to her unsteady feet and took off running in the direction of the bathroom. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mason move toward her, but Jeremy reached out and grabbed his arm, holding him back.

“Just give her some time, man. She’s been through hell.”

“Yeah, fine. Whatever,” he grunted, shrugging his arm free of Jeremy’s grasp.

Torrance slammed the flimsy bathroom door behind her, flipped the lock…and knew what she had to do.

Chapter 4

Funny, how hard it was to shake off the demons of your past; especially when you’d just discovered they were real. Evening had fallen, the shop had been closed early, and the Doucets had taken Torrance home with them, providing a safe haven in a world that had suddenly become her worst nightmare. Now she sat in their living room, perched on the edge of a love seat, recounting a story that sounded fantastical to her own ears…and she’d just survived it!

God, she could only imagine what they must be thinking.

Without looking at Michaela and Max, who sat across from her on a matching love seat, Torrance stared at the delicate cup of green tea in her hands and finished her explanations. “So I left the water running in the bathroom to cover the sound of the window opening, slipped out into the alley and ran like hell to get back to the shop.”

It had taken every ounce of courage Torrance possessed to climb out of that window. She’d had no idea if Simmons would be waiting for her, but knew she couldn’t stay and allow herself to be dragged off to God only knew where with the men who’d chased him off. She’d briefly considered calling the cops as she’d taken the back way to Michaela’s Muse, cutting through a maze of alleys and side streets, but quickly decided against it. What would she have told them? That she’d been attacked by a werewolf and then saved by two others? Right. She knew customers from Mic’s who claimed to have been bitten by vampires and terrorized by Lycanthropes, but she’d never believed them and neither had the authorities. It embarrassed her now to think of how she’d viewed them with equal parts pity and caution, thinking they’d lost their grip on reality.

Now you’re one of them, Watson. Welcome to the club.

Stealing a quick look up through her lashes, she saw that both Michaela and Max watched her with expressions that seemed tight with worry, and yet soft with understanding. She took another shaky breath, thankful they hadn’t tossed her out on her ear for being off her rocker. Torrance knew their beliefs differed from those of most people—but she still hadn’t been sure how they’d take her bizarre accounting of the past few hours.

“I know it sounds impossible,” she whispered, “but it’s true. Believe me, I wish it wasn’t, but it is. Every crazy, psychotic-sounding word.”

Michaela leaned forward, her slender hands clasped together atop her skirt-covered knees. “You did the right thing coming to us, chère. And there’s no such thing as the impossible. You should know that by now.”

A shaky wave of relief surged through Torrance, piercing and sweet. “You believe me?”

Sitting beside his sister, Max gave her a reassuring nod that sent a lock of his dark hair falling over his brow, his caring blue gaze urging her to relax. “Of course we do, Torry. You’re like family to us. And family sticks together, no matter what.”

“But…werewolves? It’s like something out of one of those horrible movies.” Movies that had scared the pants off her when she was little—lingering images and remembered flashes of sound that still had the power to affect her to this day. Had she sensed, subconsciously, the truth behind the Hollywood theatrics? Had she known, deep down, that the monsters really were hiding in the shadows?

Beyond the windows and walls of the house, the bitter autumn wind howled with fury, setting her on edge, to the point she feared she would crack. She clenched her teeth together to keep them from chattering, hoping she could hold it together for just a little bit longer.

“Torry,” Mic said gently, cutting into her unsettling thoughts. “You know about our life…about where we come from. The bayou is riddled with tales about vampires and werewolves, ghosts and cat people.” Michaela’s rouged mouth curved in a wry smile. “The way we were raised, there isn’t much Max and I don’t believe in. Sometimes you just have to open your mind to the possibilities of things you can’t explain.”

Setting her rattling cup on the small table in front of her, Torrance ran her damp palms over her jeans. “I wish it was that easy. And most of those things I could handle. You know that. Anything but werewolves.” Wrapping her arms around her middle, she rocked back and forth, shivering despite the warm air filtering into the cozy room from overhead vents. “God, I’ll never be able to just live a normal life after this.”

“You’re not alone, Torry. Max and I aren’t going to abandon you.”

An ornate grandfather clock began chiming in the far corner of the room, signaling the hour. Realizing the time, Torrance cast a questioning glance at Max. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work right now?”

He shook his head, a small grin playing at the corner of his mouth. “Naw. I’ve got the night off, remember? Good thing, too, because now I can keep an eye on things around here.”

“Oh, God,” Torrance groaned, shutting her eyes as a wrenching thought suddenly sliced its way through her brain, battering past her fear. What the hell had she been thinking? She couldn’t stay here! If Simmons could find her one time, he could find her again. She was putting both of her closest friends’ lives in danger by coming to them for help. Why hadn’t she realized that when she’d run to them?

Why? Because you weren’t thinking, you brainless, stupid, terrified little idiot!

“What? What’s wrong?” Mic asked.

Feeling sick inside, Torrance opened her eyes. “I just realized how stupid it was to come to you. I wasn’t thinking straight, and now I’ve put you both in danger. What if he tracks me here?”

“I’d like to see him try,” Max growled, making her blink in startled surprise. It seemed that just yesterday Max had been graduating from high school, but the boy sitting across from her had somehow grown up and become a man without her noticing. One who was tall and broad and lean with muscle. One who looked as if he could handle himself, and would relish the opportunity to get his hands on Simmons. Of course, Torrance wasn’t about to let it happen.

She knew she needed to leave, and told them so, but the Doucets weren’t having it.

“I don’t want to hear another word about it,” Michaela ordered, her chin set at that stubborn angle that meant she’d made up her mind and was done listening to arguments. She stood and took the empty teacups into the kitchen, then came back a moment later with a glass of water and two small blue pills on a napkin. “You’re staying right here. Now come on and let’s get you set up in the guest room. You look like you’re about to keel over from exhaustion.”

After ten minutes of arguing, and another ten minutes of getting settled in, Torrance found herself standing under a hot, steady stream of water in the guest bathroom. The air was heavy with steam while she let the soothing heat run over her body, washing away the grime of the day, if not the strain. But the sedatives Michaela had insisted she swallow were helping with that, easing the tension as a smooth warmth poured through her veins, relaxing her muscles. Leaning her head forward, the water spilling over her neck and shoulders, Torrance finally admitted to the other, more disturbing reason she had run from her apartment. The one she had refused to think about, until now.

She’d wanted to stay with him.

It seemed illogical, impossible, considering the sheer force of her terror, but the desire to go with Mason Dillinger had been frighteningly strong. The very depth of her extraordinary reaction to him had sent her running even more than the panic over what he was—and God only knew that she was terrified by the idea of what he could…become. She’d seen those lethal claws firsthand, and knew exactly what they were capable of.

You’re losing it, woman, she thought, lifting her face to the spray. Completely losing it.

There was no other explanation, because even knowing what he was…Torrance still wanted him.

Hidden within the murky black shadows of the night, Mason rested his back against the rough bark of a giant elm tree and took a deep breath of the crisp autumn air, searching for the scent of Simmons. His keen eyesight zeroed in on the picturesque house before him—the same house he’d been watching ever since Pallaton had called him with the address, after following Torrance from Michaela’s Muse. The quaint two-story sat at the end of a secluded, tree-lined street in an older, historic neighborhood of the city of Covington, surrounded by dense forest on three sides.

On the surface Mason remained cool and calm, focused on watching the house to ensure she stayed safe—but on the inside, he still burned with a cold, relentless fury.

He couldn’t believe she’d run out on him. Again.

When he discovered that she’d escaped through the bathroom window, they’d taken off after her on foot, until Pallaton had called him and said she’d shown up back at Michaela’s Muse. Shortly after that they left the shop, and the Runners had followed her here to her friend’s house. He and Jeremy had parked the Tahoe several blocks away, then cut across the woods, until coming up on the back of the house. Then they’d planted themselves just within the cover of the forest and settled in for a long, cold night. Around them the wind surged, brutal and raw, while heavy storm clouds all but blanketed the glow of the moon, lending an ominous atmosphere to accompany his already crappy mood.

“Man, she’s good,” Jeremy drawled, leaning his shoulder against a nearby tree. The blond whistled softly under his breath as they watched Torrance’s silhouette pass a second-story window in what was probably a guest bedroom. “There she is, all snuggly and warm in the house, while we’re out here freezing our asses off.”

“I still can’t believe she tried to ditch me,” Mason grunted, lighting a new cigarette and taking a long drag, welcoming the burn of the smoke in his lungs, its acrid scent filling his nose. Yeah, he was pissed at her for bailing, and even more pissed at himself for ignoring his instincts when he’d allowed her to go off to the bathroom by herself. But he’d been trying not to spook her, and it had turned around and bitten him on the ass. Hard.

“Forget ‘tried,’” Jeremy countered, his grin wry. “Her cute little backside definitely ditched you. Twice in one day. I gotta admit,” he confessed with a low chuckle, shoving his hands in the front pockets of his jeans as a brittle breeze whipped through the trees, ruffling their hair, “that I’ve always wondered what kind of woman would knock you on your arrogant ass.”

“Yeah, well,” Mason muttered, staring at the window as if he could will her to reappear, “I’m glad I’ve been able to provide you with some worthy entertainment.”

“Hey, what are friends for?”

“Just remember that payback is going to be a bitch, and now the battle lines are drawn.”

From the corner of his eye, he watched Jeremy’s cocky smirk slip into a scowl. “Meaning?”

“Meaning I’m no longer going out of my way to help you avoid a certain little fair-haired witch.”

His partner cursed softly under his breath. “You’re such a bastard, Mase. I always knew you played dirty.”

“Just don’t forget it,” he warned, taking another long drag.

Jeremy bent his knees, propping his back against the neighboring elm. After a few moments of silence, he cocked one tawny brow in Mason’s direction. “So what’s our next move?”

“We wait to see if he shows.”

“It’s quiet as hell out here,” Jeremy murmured, resting his arms on his knees as he leaned his head back against the trunk. “Not even the crickets are chirping. If he gets close, we’ll know it, even if we can’t pick up his scent.”

Mason nodded, moving his gaze over the back of the house. “If he gets close, he’s gonna die.”

“You hear from Pallaton again?”

“I talked to him while you were running recon on the street. He and Reyes are combing over the warehouse district here in Covington, checking it out, but nothing’s turned up yet. Brody and Cian are still over in Delaine, working on that second murder.”

Jeremy lifted his head, his straight brows pulled together in a scowl. “They still trying to finger the rogue?”

“Yeah, and they’ve got nothing,” Mason muttered, running his hand over his jaw, wincing at the sound of his whiskers against his callused skin. He could’ve used a shower and a shave, but knew he wasn’t getting either. At least not anytime soon.

“Nothing they can trace?”

“Hell, there’s no trace of Lycan musk for them to even identify, but they mentioned a sharp odor like vinegar all over the place. They tried to track it at both sites, but it messed with their noses, which reminds me too much of what happened with Simmons today. Anyway, they’re heading back up to the Alley tomorrow, said they’ll bring us up to speed then.”

“Good,” Jeremy grunted. “Because the killings are too ritualistic to be your average rogue kill. I’m telling you, man, I’ve got a bad feeling about it.”

“Yeah, me, too.” Within the past few weeks, two female bodies had been found in wooded areas, not far from the Silvercrest pack’s territory. Both of the human victims had been blond and blue-eyed, both were clearly Lycan kills, and both had suffered the macabre fate of having their hearts eaten out of their chests. So far the Runners had been able to keep the grisly killings contained, but Mason knew they needed to settle the matter quickly, not only to ensure there wasn’t another victim, but to keep the pack’s existence safe from discovery. It was a challenge they constantly faced as Bloodrunners—one that became harder each year.

And then there was the shocking discovery they’d made that afternoon, its potential consequences along the lines of earth-shattering. Simmons’s ability to dayshift was the kind of thing that could prove disastrous not only to the Runners, but the entire Lycan race.

He was making a mental checklist of people he needed to question, when Jeremy suddenly said, “You know, I meant to say something earlier, but everything just started happening and I never got the chance.”

Mason sent his partner a wary look. “What is it?”

Jeremy rolled one shoulder in a restless gesture. “I just wanted to make sure that you’re handling this okay.”

Oh, he knew exactly what Jeremy meant by this. Torrance. His mate.

Mason tossed the cigarette on the ground, his voice tight as he asked, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Come on, Mase,” Jeremy snorted, shaking his head. “I’m your partner. Your best friend, man.”

“You make it sound like we’re going steady,” Mason grunted, knowing where this was headed, and not wanting to go there.

“I’m just trying to say that…hell, I know how you’ve felt about this kind of stuff ever since Dean, and I know you never planned on it happening to you. Now that it has, I just wanted to make sure you were handling it okay.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he stated flatly.

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