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The stone drape is definitely gone.

He takes one step toward me.

I take two backward.

“Stay right there, Michelangelo.”

He stops.

His eyes narrow slightly.

Not in anger.

In confusion.

Then his gaze drops to my injured hand.

Blood drips from my fingertips onto the stone.

Something changes in his face.

The confusion vanishes.

His jaw tightens.

Those impossible magenta eyes darken with crimson fire.

He looks at the blood.

Then at my frightened face.

And when he speaks, his voice is deep enough to make the ground beneath my feet tremble.

“Who hurt you?”

Chapter 2

Wren

Iscream.

Not a cute little squeak or one of those breathless gasps women make in horror movies before the handsome stranger sweeps them into his arms.

Nope.

I’m talking full-volume, wake-the-dead, somebody-call-the-police screaming.

The enormous naked man standing where a statue used to be doesn’t so much as flinch.

He simply looks at me with those impossible magenta eyes and repeats his question.

“Who hurt you?”

“Who are you?!”

His dark brows draw together. “You read my name.”

“I read a name on a statue! Statues don’t usually introduce themselves!”