Werewolves

A sickening crack filled the small spilt level house, followed by the tearing of flesh. It was a glorious sound he could have sung to. The feeling of raw flesh brought back the blood lust he had not felt in ages. It came like an old friend you would never turn away. He yearned for more. The feel, the taste. The smell was intoxicating and arousing in a perverse sort of way. The man, if you could call him a man any more, quivered in his arms, his shattered spine allowed only his neck to move in a jerky shiver of muscles. He would die soon, leave this world as he came, crying for mercy. Sinclair was as pitiful as those who came before him.

"Michael, please! I'm your father!" the middle-aged French man cried. He was podgy around the sides, years of limited exercise and tobacco taking its toll. He was perhaps the most pitiful of the great line of magicians.

His cries for freedom fell on deaf ears as the man, once his son, leaned close to his throat. "Michael's dead," the vampire purred, slowly licking his jaw line. "My name is Henry."

Sinclair sobbed as he was fed upon, his magick and strength being stripped of him. In this form, Henry was not as large as he had once been, not by half. His soil drenched tuxedo made him appear like the devil himself. Long brown hair clung around his shoulders. It was a style Henry had always despised, but beggars cannot be choosers. The smaller form had the strength of the gods. He was a god.

Henry held Sinclair close, allowing their bodies to touch as he pulled every last drop of power from within the dying man. His lips made their way to Sinclair's throat. He felt the large man stiffen as he pierced the flesh with his teeth. Henry almost stopped. He really didn't want it to appear like a vampire attack.

It would alert the wrong people. But a frenzied hunger gripped him. First, he would drink from the husband and then his perky little wife who was cowering across the room.

He felt his loins tighten at the thought of her blonde hair.

Dropping Sinclair's lifeless form on the bloodstained beige carpet, he crawled on his hands and knees toward Mrs. Sinclair. She was young, too young to be Michael's mother. The body hosting his spirit was eighteen. Sinclair's wife could only be in her late twenties or early thirties. She was such a small thing, golden blonde hair, and petite body. It was her chest that must have caught Sinclair's attention. She was well endowed and had the feel of a cocktail waitress or former stripper. It was possible then, more than one Sinclair had fallen for such girls. Nevertheless, there was magick within her. Not as strong as her husband's, but still there. She was a seductress, using her gifts to gain money, fame, and love.

Henry's new senses told him all this in less than a heartbeat. When Michael was alive, he had resented her and at the same time, secretly desired her. Today, those dreams would come true, even if Michael were no longer alive to enjoy the fruits of his labour.

She did not scream, to much shock even to think clearly. It was how Henry liked it. He was a wolf stalking his prey. The boy would not be like this. No, the child would fight, so would his friends. Nevertheless, one by one, they, too, will become his. The faery and angel will bow before him. They will lay under him, crying out his name in passion, and he would give them a pleasure they could never have dreamt.

The woman whimpered as he reached her. It was impossible to believe she could ever have mothered the body he now inhabited. She was so young, so very tasty. He nuzzled her neck, drinking in her fear.

"Please, Michael. Don't do this," she sobbed as he undid her soiled blouse.

 "Lynda. May I call you, Lynda?" He grinned down at her as he sat on the edge of the bed and caught her leg before she could pull away. "That's a very pretty name. I guess you know by now your husband's dead and I'm not Michael. Well, not any more at least. And no, I'm not a demon, not quite at least." His hand started to travel up her naked thigh. "We're going to be very close for the next few weeks. Very close. You see, I've been dead this past week. A coma of sorts. A crazed Warlock switched bodies with me at the last moment." He indicated the closed bullet hole on his forehead. "Should've killed me. I'm not quite sure why it didn't or why Michael's memories led me here, but there's a purpose behind everything, I suppose. Now I'm just hungry. Very, very hungry."

She screamed then, long and as loud as the gag would allow her. Henry smirked as he lowered himself upon her. "I like my food lively," he teased before striking. Soon Elijah Hawke will scream in agony as he, too, lost all his loved ones to Henry Griffin.

Nervous, she narrowed her gaze past her fence and caught a shadow, a big upright shadow about eight feet high. She gasped, stumbling back. What the hell was that? She heard the sound of twigs and branches being snapped and she screamed. The shadow was approaching her. She spun on her bare feet and started to run back to the inn, but she lost her footing and stumbled onto the grass. Her heart raced so fast she thought it was going to explode.

Hands grabbed her by the shoulders and helped her up as she heard heavy breathing behind her. Almost hysterical now, she stared up at Gunnar and felt relief flood her veins.

“Gunnar, thank God! There’s a monster back there! I’ve never seen anything like it.”

His breathing was laboured, his expression grim, as his gaze dipped to her cleavage. Stella stiffened. He was naked. She inhaled sharply at the look of desire on his face.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said hoarsely. “Go back inside. Now.”

“Gunnar, what’s wrong? Where are your clothes?”

“I said go back inside,” he ground out.

“Come with me! There’s a huge thing out there. We need to call the police.”

“I…you,” he looked down at the rapid rise and fall of her breasts and swallowed hard.

Stella couldn’t move as something significant arose between them. Was he what she’d seen in the back and the moon’s glow had played tricks on her?

“Gunnar, what’s wrong?” she whispered. She inhaled slowly as his hands moved slowly around her and ran up and down her back.

“End my misery,” he said hoarsely.

Vasilis inhaled sharply as he took a staggering step back. He’d almost lost control and in broad daylight! Damnation, this woman was driving him to the brink of insanity. He stared at her ashen face, her lips parted in surprise, her breasts rising and falling and he willed his hammering heart to slow down. He’d almost lost control. He’d almost shifted in his Lycan form and raised his head to the heavens to release a pent up, frustrated, outraged howl. He felt Krako’s hand on his arm and shot his guard an angry look.

“At ease,” he barked.

Krako immediately withdrew his hand.

Vasilis drew in another sharp breath and looked back down at Alex. If not for the people around them, he would have taken her in his arms and surrendered to his baser need. His need to claim her. To take her and make her his.

At the thought, he stiffened violently. He’d never wanted to claim a woman in his life. He’d only wanted to bed them and temporarily sate his lust. He stared incredulously at Alex. No, this was impossible. There was no woman alive who could tame and calm his beast forever. One woman for all eternity? Ridiculous heresay, he scoffed mentally. The legend was not true.

Tearing his gaze away from hers, he looked at Ariel who was staring at him with wide eyes. He swallowed hard, pushing the bewitching Amazon from his mind. “Have your walk with your sister alone, little one. Ortega will come and tell you two when we’re about to leave.”

Ariel nodded slowly. “Okay.”

With a curt nod to Alex, he turned on his heel and left. In the privacy of his own tent, he went to his basin and splashed cold water on his face. He swore roughly under his breath as another rush of heat tightened his loins. He still wanted her. He still lusted after her. Dear God, he still wanted to claim her and make her his forever.

Was he going mad? How could one woman affect him with such powerful force when he could have anyone he wanted?

He stiffened. Was his father right? Was it time for Vasilis to mate?

Alex’s beautiful face swam before his eyes and he clenched his jaw as his heart thudded in his chest. Her sweet scent still hovered around him, seducing him, teasing him and he threw back his head, squeezed his eyes and released a long, gut wrenching howl.

“Dear God,” he whispered hoarsely when he fell silent. “What the hell is happening to me?”

 

Atar crept out of the camp. He could feel the night wind. It still had a chill of winter. The moon was waxing high in the clear sky and it shone on the landscape like an eerie noontime sun. Atar felt his breath quicken. Tonight was a time of celebration, especially since he had been miraculously granted his boon.

He was dancing, he realized with a distant part of himself. He was moving his graceful, muscular body in the moonlight to the sweetest sound he had ever heard. It was the sound of a young girl, sighing as she discovered the passion of love for the first time, yet this voice was deep, ancient, and eternal. He laughed richly, throwing his head back, delighted with life. He was alone, he knew, and this knowledge allowed him to dance in honor of that odd, achingly beautiful voice without any inhibitions.

Out of the dark emerged a tall form, resplendently silver in the moonlight. Atar stood suddenly dazed as he recognized the werewolf.

His silvery hair shone in the dark. His eyes, so cunning in the face of a wolf, still held a deep mystery. In one large hand he held a bouquet of exquisite flowers. These he handed to Atar, who was too stunned to speak.

“Is this how it is done, my dear Atar? I saw you give such a thing to the girl. I was hoping…”

Atar was used to speaking with Bulliwuf mentally. This was perhaps why he never spoke to the others. Only Bulliwuf understood. He struggled to speak. He opened his mouth, but only a sigh emerged as Bulliwuf pulled him closer, so that their bodies met. Atar felt the hardness of the werewolf, and his heat. The flowers fell from his hand as his arms instinctively embraced Bulliwuf’s strong back. The werewolf buried his nose in Atar’s hair, snuffing as he usually did. His hot tongue, so familiar, lapped around his ear. Hot desire emanated from the silvery form. Atar went stiff with the sensation. He held on as if his life depended on it, and the heat from the naked werewolf seemed to seep into every part of his willing body.

He’d always found acceptance with Bulliwuf. To be loved fully, to be an object of desire, rather than of scorn made him feel confused and weak. Bulliwuf took his face in his large hands and held him as he kissed Atar deeply. He took of him hungrily, until Atar was breathless. Their hot bodies intertwined, and Atar felt his soul rise to places he’d never imagined existed.


“I have suffered through so much, my friend,” Bulliwuf said in a voice so smooth and luscious that Atar gasped. “I have seen you succeed and I have wanted to take you so many times. Do you know how hard it is for me?”

He took Atar into his strong arms and pushed him against the trunk of a dark, ancient oak. “I want you now. I can’t wait.” Bulliwuf’s silvery-blue eyes had the eerie shine of an animal. He stared into Atar’s eyes and cupping his chin, he kissed him. First lightly—so lightly that it was as if a feather passed over his lips. Atar pushed against him now. He hadn’t realized how much his own passion had been pent up. His hands moved over Bulliwuf’s powerful body. He could feel the nakedness of the werewolf rubbing against him, and it was more than he could take. He ran eager hands through the silver hair that was soft—almost like a rich fur, but so long. His ears were hot. His whole body seemed too hot.

Atar had never taken the lead in their love making, but now he moved with aggression. Bulliwuf chuckled in his deep baritone, and this excited Atar. How sweet he tasted. Atar kissed him all over, panting as his hands moved over the muscles. He knew Bulliwuf’s body so well. It was as if it had just dawned upon him. He wanted nothing more, and he knew that for all of his bragging about women, that Bulliwuf only wanted him. Atar wanted to own Bulliwuf. He wanted to take him in and adore him forever.

The stars shone brightly in the night sky and the air hummed with life as it had done on a night, many, many years ago. As their bodies came together and they cried out in passion, the world seemed to join with them. The cacophony of night animal sounds, the babbling of the water in the creek, even the sounds no human could hear enveloped them as Bulliwuf shared his awesome power with Atar. For that moment, Atar saw and heard things through his werewolf. The night cried out with them and pulsated with eternal life.



 

“Do you want this?”

“Yes! Yes!” Zohak screamed.

The Goddess was inches away now. Zohak was surprised to feel the deep fear struggle violently to the surface. He thrust his hands out, warding her away, his face a mask of fear, but it was too late. He couldn’t move.

She bent her head and kissed his right shoulder with unseen lips. Tiny fangs pierced his skin. They were scalding hot, like fire. Zohak shuddered with pleasure. She kissed his left shoulder, tiny fangs again piercing his skin. Zohak felt the most wondrous waves of power shoot through him. He felt like a god!

Then Zohak screamed and screamed. He fell to his knees, screaming. And all the while, his head rang with the sharp, measured sound of iron striking iron. The sound rolled through him, tearing at him, tearing at his sanity like a raging river. The awful clanging mingled with his pain, producing a fear inside him unlike any he had ever experienced. He screamed until the blood dripped out of his mouth and nose. He felt the most awful sense of shame and violation that he had ever known. The pain persisted like fire, with unbearable intensity. The Goddess behind him laughed. The thick air was foul with the scent of rotting corpses and vile things.

“What have you done? What have you done?” Zohak screamed at the presence, hating it with all the intensity of his pain. He could not hear his own words for the awful clanging in his head. The measured tones fell with inexorable precision. Zohak fell to the floor, clutching his shoulders as more unbearable pain centralized there. Under the palms of his hands, he felt his shoulders swelling. He felt something smooth push against the palms of his hands.

“What…what’s happening to me? What? Ahh!”

Zohak screamed again, but his voice was horrible to hear. The weak, rasping croak was a parody of his normal clear voice. He took his hands away, but he could feel the things growing. A hungry hissing filled the chamber, and the clanging died away. Zohak strained to hear it, but the hissing was now dominant.

“No! No!” Zohak sobbed, wishing this were a dream.

The chamber was in blackness again. Zohak stumbled over to his room, and fumbled for the lamp. He somehow got the thing lit. Blinded by tears, he blundered into his bedroom. The light from the lamp seemed to be swallowed up by the utter darkness around him. He froze before the mirror, shaking his head in denial. Through his tears, he saw the sleek black shapes weaving in the air above his head. Their scales glinted in the yellow light as they undulated ceaselessly in a way that was sensual, but at the same time unspeakably horrible.

The one on his right shoulder dipped and flicked his damp hair with its red, forked tongue. The copper eyes of both snakes regarded Zohak with steady malevolent intelligence through the mirror.

 

The drip, drip, drip of water cut through the air. Each drip reverberated in his head. Zohak opened his eyes slowly. At least the clanging hadn’t started. His limbs were heavy. He tried to speak, but only a low moan escaped his lips. He thrashed his head and moaned louder. He saw the figure in the doorway. It was dark, but rays of light made a fiery backdrop. He moaned again and tried in vain to move. The figure casually set a huge mace down and pulled a wicked-looking knife out of its sheath. Zohak recognized it as the knife belonging to his foster father, Melik of the Stout Ribs. He had given it to Zohak just before he was murdered.

The man’s face was visible now. It was Atar the Idiot, his half-brother, and the real heir to the throne. Zohak wanted to plead with him. Atar’s face was impassive. All of its anger was gone. He pulled off the covers to reveal Zohak’s naked body and then, as if working with a deer carcass, he began to flay Zohak. Unable to scream, Zohak moaned in torment and terror.

Instead of the torment ending in death, he was roughly dragged out of his bloody bed and it was then that the clanging began. The dragon snakes were already writhing in agony with their master, but now their frantic movements maddened him.

Clang, clang, clang!

Another figure appeared at the door. He was a huge man—yes, it was the blacksmith Kava. He was carrying iron chains. He took these and wrapped them around Zohak’s burning body and they made his flesh sizzle like roasting meat. Zohak was overwhelmed with the horrifying odor of his own burning flesh. The blacksmith eyed Zohak for a moment then reached back to something he’d set on the floor. He put an ox yoke on Zohak’s neck.

Zohak could see the agony in the man’s mind. He saw the blacksmith’s daughter, the one his dragon snakes had eaten. His skinless body burned at the memory. He could see and feel the agony of every person he’d fed to his snakes. In response, the snakes vomited a vile-smelling substance that tortured him as it spilled over his exposed flesh.

The men were making him walk. They moved on and on until they reached a mountain that looked horribly black. They led him into a cave deep in the mountain. The blacksmith held a hammer in one hand and a long iron spike in the other. He was unable to move as the man hammered the spikes into his body, pinning him into the rock. Zohak realized that the man was being careful not to harm his vital organs.

The two men left him in the darkness and suddenly Zohak found his voice.

Zohak’s screaming brought the guards, his viziers, and even his wife, Jahi the Lovely. “Bring the astrologers and magicians,” he croaked.

His hair was in disarray and he hadn’t changed his bedclothes. Urine soaked the front and back of his robe, but Zohak didn’t care.

“So what does this dream mean?”

“We cannot be certain…”

“It can mean several things. Perhaps not all bad,” another astrologer said.

“Guards!” Zohak roared. “Prepare to have these men all flayed alive. They are hiding the truth for fear.”

An old astrologer, the chief, stood. “I will tell you. The reason we hesitate is that there is no good news. The dream means this: Everyman is born not for his parents, but as a tithe for death. No person—not even the highest king, can escape death. It means too, that your evil deeds have earned you a terrible reward. The man they call the ‘Firestarter’ will come back and he will destroy you. The blacksmith of your dream represents the many people you have killed to satisfy the greed of your snakes. Because of that greed, people have risen against you. You cannot escape your destiny, which is endless suffering as an eternal captive in Mount Damavand. The iron with which they bound you represents good over evil. The blacksmith works with iron. Iron represents forces that work against demons. It means, in short, that you are now not a man, but a demon. For you, death would be a blessing.”

He lowered himself next to her and gently lifted her on his lap.

She lifted her blue gaze to his and said huskily, “How did you find me?”

He ignored her question. The truth disturbed the hell out of him and he pushed it to the back of his mind. He ran his gaze over her face and frowned.

“What is wrong?” he asked abruptly, fear making his nape tingle. “You look weak, paler.”

She licked her lips. “I…I need to feed.” She glanced over his shoulder and squeezed her eyes. “Dammit, you scared the fox away.” She winced, gasping in pain.

“Eve, what is it?” He tightened his hold on her and shook her gently.

She gasped for breath. “If I don’t feed…I will die,” she said faintly.

He grimaced and lowered her gently to the ground. He looked around wildly. Dammit, he could have helped her if only she’d come to him. The cooks always had fresh meat being slaughtered and prepared in the kitchen for dinner. They were always washing blood off the counters and floor.

Deeply concerned, he glanced at the open field. It was barren. The forest was nearby, but he didn’t want to leave her alone while he searched for an animal. There was only one thing left to do. Grimacing, he looked down at her. All he saw were her daggers, her sword and a knife. Where the hell was her stake?

“Are all of your weapons made of silver?” he asked.

“What?” She blinked away her confusion until realisation lit her face. “No, you mustn’t. Let me…let me die.” She closed her eyes. “Please…I beg you…just take care of my daughter.” She groaned as she clutched her stomach.

He shook her. “Answer me!”

“Yes.”

“Your stake,” he said roughly. “Are you carrying it?”

“Be…behind me,” she said weakly.

Without saying another word, he lifted her and felt behind her. The stake was strapped to her back. He pulled it free and laid her down. His heart hammered in his chest as her breath came out in short rasps. Clenching his jaw, he drove the stake through his wrist, twisted it to make a deep cut and pulled it out, tossing it behind him.

Blood poured from his cut.

Quickly, he leaned over her still form and placed his bloody cut over her mouth. “Feed,” he said hoarsely.

Her eyes flickered and she shook her head.

Drago pressed his wrist to her mouth. “Eve, feed on my blood,” he said thickly. “You will die if you don’t.”

She opened her eyes and stared at him, her expression horrified. “I don’t…feed on…humans,” she said, her voice growing fainter.

He grimaced. “You forget I am not human. Now, feed.”

She squeezed her eyes. “Dear God, forgive me,” she said and grabbed his arm, pulling his wrist closer to her mouth as she began to drink his blood.

The hunger was acute as Papyan the Sinner looked at the heap they were poised to fight over. He felt himself drooling profusely, but when he noticed the great tendrils of saliva that hung from the other man’s mouth, he was terrified. Papyan the Sinner knew he must have the prize or die trying to get it. His arms swung back and forth as he tried to menace his opponent. “You bag of chicken shit, I’ll use your hide to wipe my ass,” he screamed, his voice pitching too high.

In a blur the two men attacked each other.

They were suddenly wrenched apart and were both overcome with the stench. Each man felt on his shoulder a horny claw that held him in a death grip. They went limp like kittens held by the scruff of the neck.

“What have we here, my two pups?” a voice growled. It seemed to come from the bottom of the never-ending cave, and was drenched in an evil so pure that it was mesmerizing. “You are fighting over this while forgetting what I called you for!” the throaty voice chuckled. The reek that emanated from his mouth was a mixture of decayed flesh and the cloying, fetid smell of a very large reptile.

“I need you to make yourselves useful. There is a man who must die, for with my power, I can see that he will be a problem for me if he is allowed to develop. One of you will have the job of killing him and his entire family now, while he is weak. The other will be there to help if there is a mishap.” He eyed them with a look that was primeval and reptilian. Both the men shivered. He threw them to the ground roughly. With one sharp talon he divided the large mound that was between them. It was a mound of the Sorcerer Gaumata’s excrement that they had been fighting over. Both the men trembled with renewed desire, but the creature backhanded them, his scaly skin stinging like a thousand scorpions.

The sound of a startled gasp snapped his gaze to a clearing. His eyes narrowed on the hag who stood there, her gloved hand raised to her mouth, her eyes wide as saucers as she stared at him.

“Oh no!” she whispered, gaping at his cuts and gashes.

He knew they were fading and disappearing right before her eyes. Her horrified gaze darted to his shredded clothes.

Hell and damnation! She looked like she was going to faint. He grabbed his bag from the ground and pulled his remaining trousers and shirt out. “Do not fear me,” he said as he shoved them on. “I was attacked by wolves.”

She backed away. “No! Stand back!”

“I will not harm you. I need assistance. I seek a woman who—”

“You seek me,” she said, raising a gloved hand.

He narrowed his eyes as realisation dawned on him. “You are Zora, the witch who lives in these woods.”

“Yes. Forgive me. I do this only to protect you.” She mumbled a string of words he could not understand.

Stunned, Bryce felt himself grow cold and then numb. Unable to hold himself up, he collapsed to the ground as darkness surrounded him. She was doing this to him!

“I mean you…no…harm…” he said hoarsely, trying to hold onto his last shred of consciousness. He stared at her unsightly features, tight and drawn with regret, and rested his gaze on her eyes.

They were the colour of the ocean, fringed with sooty lashes, framed by delicately arched brows. Kindness poured from them and he was fascinated with their out of place context on the hag’s repulsive features.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, before he blacked out.

Bryce opened his eyes and took a moment to adjust to his surroundings. He was sitting on a couch, his body wrapped in a silver chain. His ears pricked when he heard the sound of singing again, but this time, he wasn’t enchanted by it.

This time he was bloody furious!

Whoever was singing outside on the front porch was holding him prisoner. Evidently the hideous looking witch, Zora, had a daughter because he couldn’t conceive a voice so lovely belonging to the old hag.

Bryce tried shrugging out of the chains, but the more he struggled, the weaker he became. He heard a movement at the door and saw the hag walk in from the outside.

“Untie me,” he growled as he snapped his gaze to her face.

“I cannot.” Zora walked into the living room and stood ten paces from him, wringing her gnarly hands as she stared at him with worry on her face.

“You know what I am,” Bryce said.

“Yes. You are a Lycan.”

“I only seek a cure for this damn curse.”

Her expression faltered and she looked momentarily surprised. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

He grimaced. “I have gold, if that’s what you want.”

“You don’t understand. I cannot remove the werewolf curse. No one can. The rumours you’ve heard about me are false.”

Bryce couldn’t believe his six month journey had brought him to nothing. Anger rose in his chest and he struggled to get out of the chains, growling as a numbness restrained his strength. Dammit! He’d have to ruin his remaining clothes.

As a human, he didn’t possess the strength to snap the chains in two, but as a Lycan he did.

Calling on the beast within him, he summoned it to the surface. Nothing. His beast refused to rise. He glared at her.

Zora watched as Bryce struggled with the chains and said, “You cannot shift into either your Lycan or your wolf form. I’ve cast a spell on the silver chains. They’re subduing your beasts.”

“What do you want from me?” he roared. He moved sharply and jostled the table next to him, knocking a vase over as he shot her a furious look.

Sadness and regret tinged her expression. “I want nothing.” She walked to the table and reached for the vase.

Bryce narrowed his eyes and lunged forward, his hand snaking out from beneath the chain. The chains stopped him from moving further, but not before his fingers brushed her skirt.

She shrieked and jumped back.

Malek heard her humming a soft melody and tightened his jaw. A few moments later, he heard a splash. She was in the water—naked.

Damnation. He was supposed to be protecting her, not entertaining thoughts of ravishing her. He heard her moan and his gut tightened. The wolf in him was going wild. It wanted to join her, touch her, and caress her.

The man in him, however, was frustrated.

In two hundred years, he’d discreetly bedded hundreds upon hundreds of wenches, but he’d never felt this uncontrollable hunger coursing through his veins for any one of them.

The splashing stopped and Malek tensed. He couldn’t hear her. Moving his head to the direction of the lake bed, he gritted his teeth and tried listening for any signs of movement from her. Then, he heard a sharp yelp.

Growling, he ran toward the lake, snapping branches and breaking twigs as he charged through the thick shrub, his heart pounding with fear. Privacy be damned! He should not have left her alone!

The woods thinned and he vaulted through the air into the clearing, nearly falling over Katya. Shocked, Malek reached out his hands and stopped her from stumbling back. Instantly, his shock evaporated as he felt her soft skin beneath his hands, her curved hip, her small waist. Dazed by the sudden heat assaulting his senses, Malek stared at her breasts, full and supple, their rosy nubs had his control completely crashing down.

His inner wolf howled with primal need and he grimaced as fire coursed through his veins. He looked down at her face. She looked terrified. Without warning, she clawed at his face and screamed, her eyes turning amber.

Damnation, Katya was shifting!

“Be still,” Malek roared as he gripped her shoulders. “It is I, Malek. I heard you scream.”

She ignored him as she kept clawing and growling, pounded on his chest. Grimacing, he watched her face shift, brows meeting at the bridge of her nose, jowls appearing, ferocious fangs snapping in rage. Slowly, she grew in height, towering over him. If he didn’t shift, her Lycan form would rip him to shreds.

Without another thought, Malek called on his inner beast and shifted in his eight-foot Lycan form, his clothes ripping and shredding from his body as he expanded. She had already shifted in her seven feet tall She-Lycan and wrestled him to the ground.

“Katya! Stop,” he growled in his eerie voice, rolling over, imprisoning her body beneath his.

Malek grabbed her hands and gripped them tightly over her head as he gazed down at her face. He tried to ignore the treacherous wave of desire making his heart pound where their naked loins met. She was breathing hard, squirming under his weight, and he sucked in a harsh breath. Even in her Lycan form, he found her desirable.

Her stare connected with his and he caught a flash of recognition in them, then fear, and finally shame. “Oh no,” Katya whispered. “I’m…I’m sorry. You can release me.”

“Not until you shift back to your human.”