Kane
Chaos has its own scent.
Most humans never notice it, but my wolf does especially since the incident with my father.
I could smell it like the air just before lightning strikes.
Such a scent drifted through the second floor of the upscale club long before the screaming started.
And at the center of it all?
Kiara Jones.
Even from a distance, even from behind the carved wooden screen where Ella and I stood hidden from view, I could smell the desperation leaking off the woman like rancid smoke.
Perfume that was too sweet, clothing that revealed too much, a predator’s performance executed by someone who didn’t know she was already prey.
Kiara was in her forties, but she clung to vanity the way some people clung to life obsessively as if aging were a sin she could outrun by she
