He filled the doorway like a storm, shirtless, blood on his hands, his eyes—those fierce, burning amber eyes—glowing with something ancient and wild. His chest rose and fell as if he'd run back from the depths of the woods.
The scent of earth, fire, and wolf clung to him like a second skin.
And the moment our eyes met, something snapped.
The mark on my shoulder flared—violently.
He snarled low in his throat, barely human, stalking toward me. His body was tense, like he was fighting something… or barely holding it back.
"What the hell did they do to you," he growled, more to himself than to me.
"Stay back," I whispered, stumbling. "Please."
But he didn't.
He advanced, slow, deliberate, like a predator circling prey—but there was something deeper in his gaze. Curiosity. Hunger. Recognition.
"You smell like fire," he muttered. "Like war… and something that shouldn't exist."
I backed up until my shoulders hit the cold stone wall.
The mark pulsed again—this time, with desire.
