Venna and Noemi helped, but Stark killed at least twenty of those men himself. Without thinking twice about it. Never flinching, never faltering. His expert impelling was chilling to watch, even for me.
It’s astounding that any Bonded could have that much power without making some sort of corrupt bargain.
He senses me watching and turns to meet my gaze, then looks down at himself. “Probably should change out of this, huh? That’s one set of clothes ruined. This much blood doesn’t come out when it’s set.”
Spoken fromexperience.
A person with an ounce of self-preservation would be quaking with fear right now.
Instead, I swallow hard, a heat that has nothing to do with the campfire building in my core. “Yeah, I guess you should.”
First comes off the jacket, which he tosses into the flames. Then he reaches over his head and grabs the back of his shirt, yanking it off in one swift move.
And then Stark Therion is shirtless in front of the fire, and my needy brain wants to howl at the sight.
I thought I knew what I liked in a man’s body.
But then, I’ve never seen a man like this before.
His torso is as broad as the rest of him, narrowing slightly at the waist. There’s a slight dusting of hair on his chest, and underneath it… muscles. So many muscles. Does the human body even have this many muscles?
Apparently so, and Stark has perfected every single one. Noemi is a lucky woman.
His pecs are bulky and firm, leading down to what can only be described as abs for days. He looks like he has a forty-pack, pronounced enough that it could probably cut glass.
Beneath them is a V line, so perfectly defined that my stupid fucking mouth literally starts to water. I’m desperate to touch it, to find out where it leads.
It’s lewd.
The sight of his shirtless torso islewd; there’s no other way to explain it.
And then, of course, there are the kill tattoos—runic in style, applied by different hands. They litter his body in a dark, dangerous dance that only serves to emphasize how utterly deadly he is. Almost every inch of him is inked.
I’m so busy ogling him that I almost miss it… until I don’t. The tattoos can’t quite hide them.
Scars.
Everywhere.
All over his front. He’scoveredin deep, crisscrossing lines. They catch the firelight like spiderwebs.
And I know, with a sick churning in my gut—Iknow.
These are from before he was bonded.
The wolves heal wounds too quickly. Even deep cuts leave only a light scar. But he bonded when he was only eighteen…
I draw in a sharp breath, and he looks down at me quickly, meeting my eyes.
A shadow passes over his gaze, and he turns away, heading to his rucksack.
“Stark,” I say. We need to talk about it. Thatmanyscars…
He grabs a new shirt out and roughly pulls it on. “Leave it, Meryn.”
“No!” My voice comes out shrill. “Stark—”
He advances on me swiftly, fire in his eyes.
