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Not a good reaction. Not when the moon bloomed near fullness, and especially not when we were in such a dangerous situation. Danger is an aphrodisiac to a wolf, and my hormones didn't need that sort of prompting right now.
I tried to step back and put some distance between us, but his hand grabbed mine again, pulling me closer, until the heat of him was pressed against me and all I could smell was the tangy aroma of sweat and man and desire.
God, he smelled good.
Don't speak, he said quickly. The witch can hear through the black shield.
Shock rolled through me, battering away the desire. How the fuck could his thoughts breach my shields so easily?
My shields were vampire tight-I knew, because I'd tested them recently against Quinn and Jack, both of whom were extremely powerful telepaths. If they couldn't breach my shields, then this man certainly shouldn't be able to. Hell, according to his records-which we'd checked after our brief run-in when he'd been Patrin's watchdog-neither he nor any of his pack had ever shown any evidence of psychic skills.
Yet here he was, succeeding in doing the one thing two powerful vampires could not. Come to think of it, he'd been extraordinarily fast that day I'd cornered him and Patrin in my apartment. That might not have been a psychic skill, as such, but it proved there was something going on with this man. Something out of the ordinary for someone who supposedly was just another werewolf.
Your records say you're not telepathic, I said, mind voice tart. So how the fuck are you conversing with me that way?
Records often don't contain all the facts. His words ran with warmth, and it spun through my body like a summer storm, heating and electrifying. And I'm not telepathic.
So, this conversation we're having is just a figment of my imagination?
His amusement danced though my thoughts, and my hormones tripped along to its tune. My heart was beating so fast I swear it was about to go into a meltdown, and I wasn't entirely sure whether it was desire for the man who was holding me altogether too close, or fear of him.
An odd reaction given some of the things I'd faced over the last few years.
Like the zombie, the witch, and those yellow-eyed dogs are figments? he said, mind voice wry. I think you know better than that.
Those dogs are hellhounds, and unless you have some holy water on you, we don't stand much of a chance against them.
I have no intention of fighting them. That's why I'm up here and they're down there.
So why else are you up here, exactly? And why the hell did the press of his body against mine have to feel so good?
This closeness had to stop, otherwise I might not be able to.
I stepped back, breaking his grip on my arm and forcing some distance between us. His scent clung to my skin and clothes, teasing my nostrils and sending my pulse rate into another merry dance. But with the heat of his body no longer pressed so invitingly against me, it felt like I could breathe again. Concentrate again.
I'm tracking a killer, he said. What are you doing here?
Same. Only I'm legal.
His smile felt like sunshine through rain. All warm and sparkly as it spun through my thoughts.
Bounty hunters are legal.
Not in this state, buddy boy. I paused. Why are you hunting the zombie?
Who said I was hunting the zombie?
The metal platform swayed a little as he moved and I grabbed sideways, wrapping a hand around the railing to steady myself. A stupid reaction really, given I could now achieve seagull form and fly with some semblance of proficiency, but it seemed my stupid fear of heights just wouldn't entirely go away.
The dogs are coming back, he added.
I looked down. There was nothing but an inky blackness to be seen, and the only thing I could feel-and smell-was him.
How the fuck can you see or sense anything in this muck?
I can't see them. I can feel them.
How?
