I had just started wiping down the coffee table when I heard it.
A crash from upstairs.
My heart leaped into my throat. The towel fell from my hands.
Oh god. He was awake. The werewolf was awake in my apartment.
I froze, every muscle locked. My brain was screaming two different messages. One: run upstairs and check if he’s okay. Two: run out the front door and never come back.
Before I could decide, there were footsteps. Heavy. Uneven. The sound of someone moving around my apartment with the grace of a drunk elephant.
Then the door to my apartment opened.
I did what any rational person would do. I dove behind the counter, pressing myself against the wood, trying to make myself as small as possible. My breathing was too loud. My heart was hammering so hard I was sure he could hear it from upstairs.
More footsteps. Closer. He was on the stairs.
Coming down.
Coming toward the bookstore.
Coming toward me.
I peeked out from behind a stack of paperbacks, holding my breath.
Then his voice came, deep and rough, with an accent I couldn’t place. “Little mate... I can smell you. I know you are in here.”
I froze.
He could SMELL me? That was both terrifying and weirdly hot and I really needed to get my priorities straight because now was not the time for horny thoughts.
He appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
My brain stopped working.
He was wearing the blanket. Wrapped around his waist in a way that was barely decent. Everything else was on display. The muscles. The scars. The abs that looked carved by a very talented and very horny sculptor. His hair was messy, falling around his shoulders in waves. And his eyes - those strange grayish-red eyes - were scanning the bookstore with predatory focus.
They locked onto my hiding spot.
“There you are,” he said, and started moving toward me with fluid grace that made my mouth go dry.
I popped up from behind the counter, trying to look like I hadn’t just been hiding. “Stay back!” My voice came out higher than intended. I grabbed the first thing I could reach - a hardcover copy of Pride and Prejudice. I held it up between us. “I have a book and I’m not afraid to use it!”
He stopped. Tilted his head at me in a way that was distinctly canine. “You hide from me? Your mate?”
“Stop calling me that!” I backed up, hitting the bookshelf behind me. Books dug into my spine. “I don’t know you! I don’t know what you are!”
He took another step closer. I had nowhere to go. I was 5’7”, not short at all, but this man made me feel tiny. He had to be at least 6’9”, and I had to crane my neck to look at his face.
He seemed to sense my fear. Stopped a few feet away, hands up in a placating gesture. “You called me,” he said. There was wonder in his voice. Confusion. “I was in battle. Fighting for my throne. And then there was a pull. Your pull.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “Strong. Stronger than anything I have felt in my entire life. It tore me from my castle and brought me here. To you.”
His eyes roamed over me, taking in every detail. Then he breathed in deep through his nose.
I realized with horror that he was smelling me. Again.
His face scrunched up. Not in disgust, exactly. More in confusion. “You smell wrong.”
“Excuse me?” My voice went up an octave. “I smell WRONG? You’re the one who crashed into my bookstore naked and bleeding and apparently from another dimension!”
