If Gramps finds out, there’ll be hell to pay.
“Thank you for the concern but money isn’t an issue.” She tried to sound amicable but the man’s interference was beginning to annoy her. “I’ve waited weeks for this appointment. I’m not backing out.”
The driver’s eyes narrowed. He pulled his lips back and she saw pointed canines. “Then by all means.” He motioned to the door and snapped his fingers. “Go get what you came for. I have a job to do.”
Asshole.
“We don’t want to keep you from that, do we?” she snapped, flustered by her aggravation and spider web-thin nerves. “You were the one who wanted to talk. I was being polite.”
Her shaking fingers slipped on the handle but she managed to open the door. Cold autumn air slapped her in the face, taking her breath away. Atrum Hill was aptly named—a small city nestled on top of a mountain. The temperatures were always lower here, although she didn’t believe the rumors it was due to the supernatural residents and not Mother Nature. Placing her feet on the concrete, she steadied herself and climbed out. Her jacket wasn’t enough to ward off the elements, allowing the wind to cut through her clothing.
“Give the company a call if you decide it’s too much for you. We can have a driver here in ten minutes.” He reached for the gearshift and put the car into drive, waiting for her to close the door. “Good luck, babe. You’re going to need it.”
She scowled at the nosy man and used all the strength she possessed to slam the door. To her extreme disappointment, he didn’t seem bothered by her outburst. The cab took off, traveling toward the heart of the city. Lifting her head, she looked at the building directly in front of her. For a split second an odd blast of heat swept through her, obliterating the cold.
The Wolf’s Den.
A couple of cars were parked out front, next to an intimidating-looking motorcycle. The outline of a howling wolf on the sign above the brick building seemed to mock her, The Wolf’s Den written in a clear, bold script beside it. The red neon sign in the large glass window cast a shadow on the sidewalk next to the door, the word OPEN clearly visible. She couldn’t see through the glass, so she didn’t know how many people were inside.
She took deep breaths, telling herself to remain calm. It was nerves again. Making her think the worst. The parlor was inside the city limits but not by much. In fact, if she put her sneakers to the test she could probably run the mile-long distance to the county line. Police patrolled that area more heavily, keeping their mortal residents safe from their preternatural counterparts.
Summoning as much courage as she could, she walked toward the door, opened her bag and removed a few pieces of paper. She wasn’t sure how big the tattoo would need to be so she’d printed the image in several sizes. She’d chosen to go with a simple design—a butterfly—that would mask the red hue on her skin. The tattoo would be understated, enough to notice but not draw attention.
To her relief, the shop seemed just like any other as she opened the door and stepped inside. There were framed images along the walls. A couch and several chairs created a sitting area. The large circular counter in front had a cash register and a few portfolios.
See, it’s not so bad. You’re finally here. You can see what all the fuss is about, get some ink and put this all behind you.
Tension drained from her. Although it was chilly inside the building, warmth crept into her skin. She took a look around, searching for people. Voices drifted from a hallway behind the counter, the cadences deep and masculine. She shook off her worry, remembering the artist who’d booked her appointment. Glancing at the paper in her hand, she saw the information she’d jotted down.
The Wolf’s Den. Thursday. September 13th. 7:30.
Jackson Donovan.
Out of habit, she went to look at her watch and released an annoyed sigh. One of the positive aspects of having an unwanted birthmark on your wrist—it was easily covered with jewelry. Unfortunately, she’d removed the timepiece before she came, knowing she’d have to take it off anyway. She glanced around until she found a clock nestled at the top of the wall.
Seven twenty-seven. Right on time.
The soft chatter drifting from the hallway stopped. She heard a chair squeak followed by heavy footsteps. Her heart throbbed inside her chest and her palms went clammy. The person she’d spoken with when she’d made her appointment hadn’t given her his name, but he’d sounded like a normal man. She’d assumed that maybe the owner hired human help. But what if she was wrong? Perhaps it wasn’t easy to pinpoint a werewolf.
Maybe they look like everyone else?
A figure came around the corner, hidden by shadow. Goodness he was enormous—well over six feet—with shoulders that seemed to swallow the hallway. She didn’t want to stare but she couldn’t help herself. With each step more of him was revealed, inch by slow inch. She started with his scuffed boots and worked her way up. Worn jeans hugged his thighs, coming up to a tapered waist. The T-shirt shielding his torso was snug, revealing the outline of his muscular stomach.
She swallowed down the knot forming in her throat, waiting to see his face. Dark stubble shadowed his chin and jaw, matching hair that brushed his shoulders. The moment he stepped into the light she inhaled raggedly. His brows were full, positioned perfectly over eyes the shade of autumn leaves. They appeared almost gold, the color vibrant and stunning.
Gorgeous.
The man was absolute perfection.
Her birthmark burned white-hot, yanking her focus from the eye candy she’d been ogling. She covered the spot with her hand, biting back a wince. The papers slipped from her fingers and drifted onto the counter. She realized how she must have looked—grasping at her wrist, dropping her things, unable to meet the man’s gaze.
Just great. So much for playing it cool.
“Sorry,” she mumbled and tried to ignore the ache in her wrist, reaching for the papers as she shifted her purse on her shoulder.
The man beat her to the punch, moving so fast she took an alarmed step back. She lifted her eyes from the large hands holding her belongings, his fingers thick and long, his nails neatly trimmed. His cologne drifted to her nose and her knees almost caved. A balmy cloud covered her, making the room spin. He smelled as good as he looked—a mixture of fresh spring rain along with a woodsy scent that sent an electric jolt from her stomach to her sex.
“Chloe Bryant?” he asked, the words a throaty timbre of sexual promise.
She closed her eyes. He sounded so familiar, as though they’d met somewhere before. “Yes,” she whispered, reminding herself to breathe.
What’s wrong with me?
“Son of a bitch.” He sounded like he was coming closer, walking around the counter. “Let’s get you in the back before someone sees you.”
Sounded like a plan. Right now she couldn’t move. It felt like her feet were rooted to the floor by invisible weights. Her heart was racing, her birthmark pulsing. She opened her eyes when his hand wrapped around her forearm. The spell wasn’t broken but her body did obey her commands. She followed as he guided her to a room on the left of the hallway. She wondered why it didn’t frighten her when he closed the door behind them.
He was a stranger, after all.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said softly and spun her around.
Their hands brushed in a whisper of skin against skin. In an instant, a connection was made. Something inside her reached out to him, desperate for a deeper link. The fuzzy sensation in her stomach exploded, a tidal wave of heat erupting from her pussy. Time seemed to stand still, the walls of the midsized room closing in. She swayed, afraid she might fall flat-faced on the floor. Her breasts felt oddly heavy and swollen, her soft cotton panties suddenly uncomfortable against her clit.