The blood in her mouth belonged to a man she hadn’t killed.
Jane sat paralyzed behind the steering wheel of the idling SUV. The wipers dragged across the windshield with a rhythmic, rubbery squeal, smearing the freezing rain into distorted neon streaks. She tasted hot copper. She felt the wet, tearing resistance of muscle giving way against bone.
She spat into the passenger footwell. Saliva. Just clear saliva.
But her jaw ached with phantom pressure. Her pulse thrummed with a sick, euphoric rhythm that was entirely alien to her own body.
Crack.
Jane’s spine arched violently against the leather seat. A harsh gasp ripped from her throat as a phantom wave of pure, unadulterated s*******r crashed through the mate bond. Miles away, Michael had just broken someone in half. She felt the exac
