What happens next makes me gag. A series of brutal punches, each one landing with sickening precision. When he finally drops the limp body, both attackers are groaning on the ground, one clutching his clearly broken arm.
Then he turns to me.
Oh.
Oh my God.
Dark eyes lock onto mine, burning with an intensity that steals my breath all over again. His face is all hard angles, stubbled jaw clenched tight, short dark hair with flecks of silver at the temples. A scar runs across his left eyebrow. His knuckles are bleeding.
He stalks toward me, and despite him having just saved me, I find myself backing up until I hit my car. He's just so...overwhelming. Radiating danger and power with every step.
"You're safe now, little girl," he growls, stopping just inches away, his massive frame completely dwarfing mine.
Little girl? I'm twenty-four, but the way he says it sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. Not entirely unpleasant. What iswrongwith me?
"Th-thank you," I stammer, pressing myself harder against my car door. "Who—who are you?"
"Woodrow." He doesn't offer a last name. Just keeps staring at me with those intense eyes, like he's memorizing every inch of my face. "They won't touch you again."
The possessive way he says it makes something flutter low in my belly. But there's fear too, hot and sharp. This man just incapacitated two attackers without breaking a sweat. What else is he capable of?
"I should call the police," I whisper, fumbling for my phone.
"No." His hand shoots out, not touching me but blocking my movement. "No police."
"But those men?—"
"Will be dealt with."
The cold certainty in his voice makes me shudder. I can hear the men groaning, trying to crawl back to their van. Woodrow doesn't even look at them. He's focused entirely on me, his gaze traveling down my body and back up again, not leering but...assessing. Like he's checking for injuries. Like I belong to him somehow.
"How did you—why were you—" I can't form complete sentences. My heart is still racing, adrenaline making my thoughts scatter like marbles.
He takes a step closer. I can feel the heat radiating off his body now. "I've got you," he says, softer but no less intense. "No one's going to hurt you. Not while I'm around."
I should be grateful. Iamgrateful. But something about him, about this whole situation, makes me take a wobbly step sideways, away from his overwhelming presence.
“Do we need to call the police? Do anything.” I shake my head, my mind swirling. “I need to go home," I finally say, my voice small. "Thank you again, but I—I should go."
A muscle ticks in his jaw and he shakes his head. “You’re coming with me.”
Uh-oh.
two
. . .
Woodrow
The momentI first saw Priscilla, I knew she was mine. Not in the way normal men see women they want to fuck. In the way a wolf recognizes its mate—primal, absolute, non-negotiable. I watched her through the bookstore window, shelving novels with those delicate hands, tucking that dark hair behind her ear, completely unaware of the danger circling her. Completely unaware of me. Her protector. Her shadow. Her fucking salvation.
Three weeks I've been watching her. Twenty-one days of restraint that's been eating me alive. Those soft curves that beg for my hands. That sweet mouth that would look perfect stretched around my cock. Those wide, innocent eyes that don't know shit about the world or the men in it. Men like me.
I shouldn't want her. She's everything I'm not—pure, untouched, good to her fucking core. Twenty-four to my thirty-eight. A lamb to my wolf.
But I do want her. And what I want, I take.
Fifteen years in special forces taught me how to hunt, how to kill, how to disappear. Another five as private security for the kind of people who don't officially exist made me rich. Made medangerous. Made me the kind of man who can smell a threat from a mile away.
