Page 4 of Claimed By The Tracker

Toward.

Reaching for something I couldn't see yet.

Someone.

It had never done that before. Not once in twelve years.

I kept my eyes on the coffee cup and watched him in my peripheral vision.

Wrong.

He was wrong for this diner in every possible way.

Too still. Too deliberate.

Dark hair cut short but not carefully. Dark eyes that read almost black beneath the fluorescent lights. A face that looked one breath away from either irritation or violence.

Tall. Six-three at least. Lean, hard-muscled, built more for pursuit than brute force.

And he moved between the booths like something that already knew where its target was.

Not rushed.

Not casual.

Certain.

Fear crawled cold along my spine.

I fixed my smile.

The same one I'd just given the waitress.

Bright. Warm. Harmless.

The one that said I am approachable and uninteresting and certainly not worth stopping for.

The smile that had carried me through four years of family dinners. Through nine years of knowing what my father had done and pretending I didn't.

Through this morning, when I'd stared at my reflection in the bridal suite and watched my own face lie.

The stranger stopped beside my booth.

Then sat across from me without being invited.

The vinyl creaked beneath his weight.

His scent hit me.

Pine. Leather. Something warmer and darker underneath.

And the unmistakable edge of not quite human.

My magic flared.

Gold warmth crackled at my fingertips inside my fists, reaching toward him the way it had never reached toward anyone.

I tightened my fingers around the cup.