Page 8 of Israel

He hoped his wolf would be okay with staying in human form for extended periods. He was restless enough over this whole mate thing, and being unable to come out and run would make it worse. When Israel had taken this job, he hadn’t realized there would be so many humans around all the time, living in each other’s pockets.

Harrison led him down a dingy hall to a closed door, with a makeshift sign reading A. Silver. The tour manager was listening to something on his headset.

He put his hand over the mic. “In there,” he said to Israel, waving toward the door. He took his hand from the mic and said, “No, dammit, there are supposed to be three—oh, fuck it, I’m coming over there.”

Got to go, he mouthed at Israel, and pointed to the door again before striding off, yelling “No, I said three—” into the mic.

Israel was left standing like an idiot outside Ashley Silver’s dressing room door. Great. Nothing like bursting in on a nervous client without an introduction or anyone to vouch for him.

He rapped on the door and waited. When there was no answer, he knocked louder and called, “Ms. Silver?”

There was no sound for a minute, and then he heard a loud clatter and a thud, as if something had been knocked over.

Adrenalin pulsed through Israel, sharpening his focus. Fuck it. That’s all he needed—for the stalker to get to his client before he even met her.

He drew his gun from the shoulder holster underneath his leather vest. “Ms. Silver,” he called again. “Open the door.”

When there was no response, he hit the door with the heel of his boot and burst it open, slamming it against the wall and entering in a half-crouch.

There was no one inside.

As he scanned the dressing room, a loud “What the fuck?” came from behind a large folding screen in the corner, and then a copper-haired blur erupted into view. She launched herself across the room, kicked Israel’s gun out of his hand, then changed feet and swept around in a quick roundhouse kick, getting him mid-chest.

She knocked him back a step, which normally wouldn’t be a problem, with his reflexes. Except this time, there was a footstool right behind him. It caught him just below the knees, and he lost his balance and fell. As he hit the floor he tucked his head and rolled backwards into a crouch, his momentum slamming his back into the far wall.

“Freeze, pervert!”

He looked up to see a lusciously curved woman wearing nothing but a fancy silver necklace and a lacy blue bra and panty set that exactly matched her cobalt-blue eyes. Those eyes were narrowed in suspicion, and she was sighting him down the barrel of his own gun.

Fuck.

Then their eyes met, and Israel felt exactly like a Wile E. Coyote cartoon after an anvil had been dropped on him. Flattened. Breathless. Stars and planets and tiny tweeting birds circling around his head.

Inside, his wolf put his nose in the air and howled like a lunatic.

Israel forgot about the gun pointed at him. Hell, he forgot how to make words. All he could see was curves and creamy skin and badass attitude and the sprinkling of freckles across her cleavage that made him want to kiss every last fucking one of them. Something in the middle of his chest felt like it went supernova, and warmth spread to every cell in his body.

It was her.

She was The One.