The mansion smelled of dust, damp stone, and forgotten roses. Anna’s fingers trailed over peeling wallpaper, her heart a fragile, aching thing in her chest. Then the air changed—ozone and wild earth. He stood at the end of the hall, not human, not beast, all sharp angles and amber eyes that held her still. Her breath caught, her skin prickling with a heat that had nothing to do with fear. She was wet, suddenly, devastatingly, for the monster in the shadows.
He was a silhouette of impossible anatomy against the weak light from a cracked window. Dark, sleek fur rippled over shoulders too broad, a chest too deep. His stance was a crouch and a prowl fused into stillness, one hand—no, a paw with cruel, curved claws—resting on the floorboards. The amber eyes didn’t blink. They drank her in, and the heat between her legs throbbed in answer, a pulse so sharp she swayed.
“You’re real.” Her voice was a ghost of itself, stolen by the sight of him.
A low rumble answered, vibrating in the floorboards, in the marrow of her bones. It wasn’t a growl of threat. It was a sound of recognition. He shifted, the movement liquid, and a shaft of dusty light caught the elegant line of a muzzle, the sharp point of an ear. He was beautiful. Terribly, primally beautiful. The ache in her chest—the one left by Mark’s careless words and emptier hands—splintered, replaced by a wild, expanding pressure.
He took a step forward. Not a lunge. An approach. Each placement of his weight was silent. The ozone smell intensified, mixed with the musk of deep forest and something uniquely male. Anna didn’t retreat. Her back found the wall, the old paper crumbling under her palms, but she leaned into it, her body arching toward him as if pulled by a string tied low in her belly. Her nipples tightened against her thin shirt. The dampness in her cotton panties was a secret she was certain he could smell.
He stopped an arm’s length away. His head tilted, those luminous eyes tracing the flush climbing her throat, the rapid flutter at the base of it. His breath warmed the air between them. She saw the intelligence there, ancient and patient, and the profound, silent loneliness. It mirrored her own. Her hand lifted, trembling, charcoal-stained fingers reaching through the space toward the dark fur of his jaw.
Her trembling fingers sank into the fur of his jaw. It was not coarse, but dense and silken, warm from the heat of his body beneath. A shock, electric and grounding, traveled up her arm. Rein’s eyes slid shut. A shuddering breath escaped him, a visible ripple moving through the powerful muscles of his shoulders. The low rumble in his chest deepened, becoming a purr that vibrated through her palm and into her bones.
“You’re so warm,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her thumb stroked, a tentative exploration. The fur was softer at the curve of his jaw, giving way to the harder line of bone. He leaned into her touch, a slow, deliberate press that made her gasp. His warmth seeped into her chilled skin. The animal musk of him, the ozone, filled her lungs. Her own scent—arousal, sharp and sweet—mingled with it in the air between them.
His eyes opened. Amber fire, fixed on hers. He moved his head, just an inch, nudging her palm upward so her fingers brushed the sensitive spot behind his ear. Her breath hitched. The gesture was trust. An offering. Her other hand lifted, of its own volition, to mirror the first. She cradled the fierce, beautiful lines of his muzzle, her thumbs tracing the arch of prominent cheekbones beneath the fur. He was watching her, utterly still, letting her map him.
“I’m not afraid,” Anna said, and it was the truest thing she’d ever spoken. The fragile ache in her chest was gone, incinerated by this new, consuming heat. Her hips pressed forward, a helpless little rock against the wall, seeking friction for the throbbing need he’d awakened. The damp cotton of her panties was a maddening barrier. She was certain he could see the flush spreading down her throat, into the shadowed vee of her shirt.
Rein’s purr stuttered. He dipped his head, his broad forehead coming to rest against hers. The contact was startlingly intimate. His breath, hot and moist, fanned across her lips. She could feel the sharp points of his canines so close to her skin. A whimper escaped her—not fear, but a raw, wanting sound. Her fingers curled tighter in his fur, holding him there. The hallway, the dust, the forgotten roses—all of it fell away. There was only his heat, his scent, the terrifying rightness of his wildness against her yielding flesh.
He pulled back just enough to look at her. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lower, to the frantic pulse at her throat, to the tight peaks of her nipples straining against her shirt. A claw-tipped hand rose, not to touch her, but to hover beside her cheek, a dark silhouette against the peeling wallpaper. An invitation. A question. The air crackled. Her body answered for her, arching off the wall, offering her throat to that suspended claw, to him. Waiting.