She doesn’t knock.
Doesn’t need to. She’s vibrating with fury and something worse—desire. It’s in her pulse and in the throbbing heat between her thighs and in the humiliating ache where her need still coils tight like a loaded gun.
She kicks open Rael’s door.
He’s shirtless. Of course, he is.
Sweatpants slung low on his hips. Chest dusted with dark hair. A single tattoo over his heart—something old and brutal in a language she doesn’t understand. He looks like sin and ritual. The god of wolves and war.
“You—” she chokes on the rest. Her voice cracks with too many things.
He lifts his head. Calm. Controlled.
“Didn’t think you’d come so soon,” he says.
“f**k you.”
A slow smile. “You already did.”
“You didn’t touch me.”
He stands slowly, like the predator he is. “Didn’t have to.”
