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“Alexandra Trevalyn,” he murmured, getting slowly to his feet. “I’ve been waiting for this a long time.”
He crossed the short distance between them and pushed her hair out of her face, then grabbed her chin, holding on tightly when she struggled.
“Look at her,” he said in a voice that chilled despite the heat in his eyes.
He dangled whatever he’d been peering at in front of her. One glance at the photograph—a woman, pretty and young, blond and laughing—and Alex closed her eyes.
Ah, hell.
“You know her?” His fingers clenched hard enough to bruise.
Alex knew her all right. She’d killed her.
Julian Barlow could barely stomach putting his hands on the murdering bitch. He was torn between an intense desire to release her and an equally strong urge to crush her face between his fingers, listen to the bones snap, hear her scream. But that would be too easy.
For her.
He had something much better planned.
She tried to jerk from his grasp, but he was too strong, and she only ended up hissing in a sharp, pained breath when he tightened his grip even more.
“Her name was Alana,” he said, “and she was my wife.”
Alexandra’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “She was a werewolf.”
“She was a person.”
“No.” Her eyes met his, and in them he saw her utter conviction. “She wasn’t.”
Just as all people weren’t the same, all werewolves weren’t, either. Some were evil, demonic, out-of-control beasts. But his wife—
Julian’s throat closed, and he had to struggle against the despair that haunted him. He’d do what he’d come to do; then maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to sleep.
Julian drew in a deep breath and frowned. He didn’t smell fear. His eyes narrowed, but all he saw on Alexandra’s face was a stoic resignation.
“Get it over with,” she said.
“What is it you think I brought you here to do?”
“Die.”
“You wish.”
Alexandra’s teeth ground together as he repeated the words she’d used to Jorge. He released her with a dismissive flick of the wrist. Best to get it over with as she’d said.
Lifting his fingers to the buttons of his shirt, Julian undid them one after the other, then let the dark garment slide to the floor. Her eyes widened, and she let her gaze wander over him. Wherever that gaze touched, gooseflesh rose. He didn’t want her looking at him, but he didn’t have much choice.
Julian lowered his hands to his trousers, and her eyes followed. But as soon as he unbuttoned the single button, they jerked up to meet his. The sound of the zipper shrieked through the heavy, waiting silence.
She started, paled, and it was then that he at last smelled her fear.
“Dying doesn’t scare you,” he murmured as he eased his thumb beneath the waistband of the black pants and drew them over his hips. “Let’s see what does.”
“You’re going to have a mighty hard time raping me with that,” she sneered, lifting her chin toward his limp member.
“Rape?” He yanked the tie from his ponytail and let his hair swirl loose. “Not my style.”
Confusion flickered over her face. “Then what’s with the striptease?”
