He was dead on my table. Then he opened his eyes. I'm a forensic pathologist. The dead don't scare me. But when my John Doe started breathing mid-autopsy — and the wound I'd cut into his chest healed itself in front of me — the laws of medicine stopped applying. His name is Kael Voss. Alpha of the Blackthorn Pack. Someone put silver in his side and left him in an alley to die. They should have made sure he stayed dead. Now his blood is on my skin. His enemies are at my door. And he says I'm his mate — bound to him by a bond that was never supposed to touch a human. The wolves who betrayed him will tear me apart to send him a message. But I didn't survive seven years in the morgue by being easy to kill.