But not even “Hot Love” could keep her from hearing Alan say, “What do you mean Asil Moreno isthe Moor? You had me arrange a date for Ruby withthe Moor?”
Ruby pulled off her headphones and met Alan’s horrified gaze.
Problem?she mouthed.
He nodded, looking wild-eyed. He concluded his call but kept his phone in hand. “I’m canceling this,” he said. “Dangerous is one thing. Messing around with the Moor is out-of-the-frying-pan-into-the-fire level of stupid.”
Unfortunately, before he could make a call—or explain to Ruby who the Moor was and why that had changed Alan’s mind—the Subaru with Montana plates they’d been told to look for splashed through the temporary stream where pavement met sidewalk and stopped. Her date was here. Twenty minutes early.
Alan gave a frustrated growl and spoke hurriedly, just before the engine stopped. “Treat him like you would Angus, if Angus were both crazy and ten times as dangerous as he is. Maybe a hundred times as dangerous.”
She didn’t think it was the time to point out that she’d never met Alan’s Alpha.
The Subaru’s door opened. Alan shut his mouth and visibly tried to get control of himself.
Out of the mud-spattered car, the most beautiful man Ruby had ever seen emerged. He glanced at them, then walked around the front of his car. He strode through the downpour with no more notice than if he’d been walking through dry sunshine as his shirt darkened and clung to every cut inch of him. It was an effect she’d have expected in a men’s cologne commercial or one of those racy Calvin Klein ads. She’d never seen anything like it in real life.
He stepped across the widening torrent of water between road and sidewalk without visible effort or a break in stride. The grace of his movement made her mouth dry and her pulse speed up—not a reaction she welcomed just now.
His skin was a rich brown and his features were Arabic—“the Moor” might be as much a description as an epithet, she thought. As he got closer, she could see his eyes; the color reminded her of liquid bitter chocolate. It made her nervous that her mind was giving her edible similes to describe him. This wasn’t really a date.
The photo on his profile had been a rose. She’d thought, casually, that it might be to conceal a blemish. She hadn’t considered it might be to keep him from getting millions of queries and unsolicited offers of modeling contracts.
He was no more than average height, maybe less. His hair was short, as dark as his eyes, and it curled just slightly in the rain. There were no age lines on his face, but she knew better than to expect a werewolf to look old.
He didn’t look crazy, either. Or even particularly dangerous—or at least not dangerous in any way that didn’t have to do with sex.
The address Asil had been given belonged to a grand old Victorian that reigned supreme on a quiet street of lesser houses. The falling snow in the mountains had given way to a heavy, cold rain, and he was soaked to the skin before he had even shut the car door.
His date sat on the wall of the porch, safe and dry beneath the overhanging roof. A compact man with Chinese features stood near her. The man was a werewolf. Even the rain could not hide his scent from Asil.
He considered how that changed the game he was playing as he made the wet journey onto the porch. The werewolf kept his eyes on Asil’s shoes—but the woman had no trouble meeting his gaze. Her own carried a challenge and, he thought, a reluctant interest. The werewolf, on the other hand, smelled terrified—but Asil was used to dealing with such a reaction.
Ruby Kowalczyk looked a lot like her photograph—which people didn’t always. She wore tight pants that followed the muscled curves of her body until they—the pants and the curves both—disappeared into the loose flowing shirt that ended halfway down her leg. The feminine blouse was balanced by well-aged black combat boots.
Her red-brown hair was collected in a tidy braid, revealing her strong jaw and straight nose without precisely flattering her. She watched him with ice-blue eyes framed in dark lashes sparkling with glittery mascara. She looked maybe nineteen.
But Asil’s wolf knew better. The air carried her scent to him through the winter rain—something magical and older than a few decades, though not anywhere near as old as he was. Fae, he thought, then considered as he got nearer and revised it to half fae. Enough blood to give her long life and the power that roiled and coiled about her but was oddly contained. Trapped. He didn’t know how his wolf knew all of that, but he’d long since ceased doubting anything the old beast told him with such surety.
Her profile had said she was around thirty, a bookstore clerk and amateur but experienced ghost hunter. His had listed his age at thirty-five, a financier with a yen for adventure. Ghost hunting experience: interested novice.
He was pretty sure she had only lied about her age—which was a woman’s prerogative, after all—and the mealy word “around” could be stretched to gossamer to prevent a lie. In his experience, half fae could lie—but most of them tended not to. His own profile had been a lie from start to finish, but then he wasn’t fae, and he hadn’t written the cursed thing anyway.
Asil ascended the stairs. When he reached the dry boards under the porch roof, the other werewolf held out his hand, his gaze never rising above Asil’s shoulder. Though he’d put himself between Asil and his date. Brave of him. Asil liked him already.
“Hello,” the wolf said. “I’m Alan Choo.”
His fingers shook only a little, but his breathing was ragged and Asil could feel the other wolf’s tension rocketing to the sky at Asil’s touch when he took the offered hand.
Which was unacceptable to Asil and his wolf. Thesubmissive wolves were the heart of the pack, to be protected above all others.
Asil let go of Alan’s hand, then reached up to touch his throat with light fingers.
“You are in no danger from me,” Asil told him—a little surprised to hear the words out of his own mouth.
It had been a long time since he’d been able to make such a promise to someone who was not an Omega wolf. Alan must be very submissive for Asil’s wolf to be so certain—especially after his almost disastrous meeting with Angus’s second. But his wolf’s determination resonated in a way that Asil had almost forgotten, as if his wolf were stable and sane once more—as it had been over two centuries ago when he was mated to an Omega wolf. No. That wasn’t true.
Even with Sarai, his beast had been difficult, struggling with the quieting effect of an Omega like an unhandled colt objecting to the bridle. It had been before Sarai. More than five hundred years—at least—since he’d felt like this. Steady, centered, certain. Grounded.
