The sound of weaponized silver boiling werewolf blood was a wet, hissing crackle, like raw meat thrown onto a white-hot skillet.
Michael didn’t fall immediately. His massive frame locked rigid above her, acting as an impenetrable wall against the gale-force wind currently howling through the shattered penthouse window. Shards of reinforced glass the size of kitchen knives rained down around them, burying themselves into the mahogany table and the hardwood floor.
None of them touched Jane. He took every single one.
A thick drop of blood fell from his jaw. It landed perfectly on her collarbone, directly over the raw, pulsing bite mark he had just claimed her with.
It burned.
Michael’s arms shook. The man who had endured years of systematic poisoning in a pitch-black cell without making
