The moment I drew my gun and flipped the bathroom lock into place, it hit me: his scent.
Exotic. Spicy. Clean as ocean air. Earthy and pure like mountains and pine. But … complex. Strangely alluring. Surprisingly appealing, in fact.
Old and powerful. I caught the now-recognizable scent of magic on him—the same underlying scent I’d picked up on Raul—differentiating him from a normal werewolf and classifying him as a superbeast.
In an instant, I knew I’d been set up. My “easy” werewolf target was anything but. He was a werelock.
Wyatt would never betray me. Which meant that Wyatt had been set up to set me up. Or his mind had been compromised by a powerful enemy werelock—as Raul had claimed.
He looked enormous standing in the small space of the bathroom at the lone urinal. His back was to me, but the moment I’d entered and flipped the lock, his head had turned ever so slightly to the side, his nose tilted in the air to sniff out the intruder.
The fact that he wouldn’t be able to scent me could possible buy me a few seconds of additional time—if he was the curious type. Or it might get me killed faster. Because despite the fact he couldn’t smell me, I knew he would definitely smell the weapon in my hand.
Still, I hesitated, my composure shaken by the shock of his scent, of the perfect male beauty of his sculpted, naked ass cheeks on display—and the knowledge that I was fucked.
It was too late for retreat. I’d never make it out the door and back up the stairs if this guy was capable of the things I’d witnessed Raul do.
And if he was anything like Raul, no amount of bullets would stop him anyway.
As I watched, his body visibly stiffened.
I aimed my gun, yet remained otherwise frozen as he inhaled a second time—his upper back expanding, his shoulders rising as his lungs filled with air.
Pull the trigger, Avery.
I’d never had any qualms before about shooting a target in the back when his pants were down. I wasn’t big on heroism or sportsmanship; I stuck to ease and efficiency. But something was stopping me now. Something in his scent felt too … right … to be ended.
And some foolish part of me wanted to see his face. I told myself it was to confirm that he was the one from the photo, to make sure I had the right target.
Slowly, he turned.
He was gorgeous.
His hazel eyes burned bright gold as they took me in—brazenly looking me up and down, his jaw agape.
The gun grew heavy in my hand. I felt my own eyes shifting to that of my wolf as they traveled from chiseled, ruggedly handsome, seemingly awestruck facial features, down a thick neck that caused my canines to extend and salivate, over a T-shirt-encased chest and abdomen that my hardening nipples were demanding to rub up against.
My inner bitch hadn’t been this excited by a male since …
My captivated wolf eyes wandered over beautiful, tanned skin covering densely corded arm muscles, down to a well-formed, huge hand that held … an even huger dick.
That was lengthening and expanding before my eyes.
My mouth watered. I could’ve sworn my vaginal muscles actually jumped.
My inner bitch’s excitement was suddenly overwhelming. I had a mad urge to drop my gun and leap right on him.
But my daughter’s life was at stake. So I forcibly shut my she-wolf down.
And I shot him instead.
The quiet plink sound of the brass casing hitting the tiled floor was horrifying on multiple levels. My wolf was horrified that I’d actually fired at our—this—man. And I was horrified that the bullet hadn’t so much as scratched his skin.
I glanced down and noted his erection was even bigger than before.
Maybe Wyatt hadn’t been set up to set me up. Maybe this guy was like the dopey werelock of his pack, and that made him an easy target?
I fired again.
My she-wolf howled in protest. I pulled the trigger a third time.
I’d hit my target dead in the heart, as evidenced by the burnt hole I’d made in his shirt. But the man—superbeast—beneath was perfectly fine. He reached up and fingered the hole, his glowing eyes never leaving my face. He ceased gaping and an indulgent, lopsided grin stretched his luscious mouth.
Then he chuckled—a rich, masculine sound that caused pure feminine need to pool between my thighs.
He whipped his T-shirt over his head and tossed it aside.
Fuck, that chest.
I didn’t even try not to look. I openly ogled him—my sex pulsing to life against the seam of my jeans.
He took a step toward me. A step that was made awkward by the fact that his jeans were around his ankles. He glanced down briefly, taking note of the issue. A second later, his pants were gone. Vanished.
Fuck. He was one hundred percent for sure a werelock.
A dead-sexy one hundred percent naked werelock with a massive erection.
The right way.
There was a predatory gleam in his eyes as he took another step closer. But it was also playful. Scary. Yet fun—like he was daring me to do something.
Claim him, my she-wolf chanted.
I shook her aside. Kill him, I countered.
To my ever-loving shame, I actually bit my lip and winced the fourth time I pulled the trigger, aiming the barrel of my gun at his perfectly beautiful, flawless, naked chest. I had the worst sense that it had somehow hurt me more to pull that trigger than it had him.
I was right. This time, he groaned as the bullet bounced off of him and the casing clinked to the floor. And it was a groan of pure pleasure. Of carnal lust.
“Fuuuck.” His bass spoke directly to my nether lips. “You. Are perfection.” His words caused my heart to flutter as they echoed softly off the tiled walls. The sound of his voice felt oddly familiar. Warm. Safe.
Werelock, I reminded myself.
A cold sweat broke out over my skin. The gun had begun to shake in my hand. I steadied my arm and adjusted my aim. This was the craziest I’d felt since turning into a crazy Grimm’s Fairy Tale creature a decade ago.
Add to GR TBR: http://bit.ly/2yjavrz