RHYS
The coffee tastes like poison.
I’m standing at the windows in my penthouse watching the sun come up over Seattle. I haven’t slept since Monday night because every time I close my eyes I feel it again, that electric shock when I grabbed her arms.
I down the rest of the coffee even though it’s cold now and I set the mug on the counter and it cracks down the middle. That’s the third one this week.
My wolf is pacing, showing me flashes of her face, her scent, the way her pulse jumped when I touched her.
Mine, he growls. Ours. Go back. Claim her.
“Not happening,” I say to my empty penthouse.
That Friday night when she tripped and our lips touched for maybe three seconds and my wolf surged forward so fast I partially shifted before I could stop it. I spent all weekend convincing myse
