Bad Wolf (Wild Men 4)

And that’s all there is to it, I think as I pull out a worn and battered string of leather from the back of the chair.

Jesse’s leather band.

Standing in front of Jesse’s door, I shift from foot to foot in my flat sandals and tug on the hem of my blue summer dress with one hand.

The other clutches the worn leather band. I lift it, inspect one last time the faded letters inked on one side. ‘Helen’.

I’d guessed she was the one who gave the bracelet to him, but it was still a small shock to see her name there. So far she’d been a whispered name, a vague reference.

She’s real. Or was?

So many questions torturing my mind, lying on the tip of my tongue, waiting to spill out. But when the door finally creaks open and Jesse is standing in front of me, half-naked and drop-dead gorgeous, they evaporate into thin smoke.

“Embers?” He lifts a dark brow, and I try to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth.

Kind of hard with all that muscled, male, inked flesh in full display in front of me. He’s shirtless, and oh God, I’d forgotten his nipples are pierced. The silver hoops threaded through the small brown nubs gleam. His bare chest is sculpted and hard, from his pecs to the cut abs and the fine dark trail of hairs leading into the waistband of his gray jogging pants.

Sweat glistens on his skin, on the colorful ink covering his arm, the swirls and lines dipping from his left shoulder down to a defined pec. A demon is tattooed there, stylized wings and a monstrous head, fading into the purple and blue of other, older-looking tats. And then of course there’s the cobra I noticed on his arm the other day.

“Hey,” I say vaguely, my brain on shut-down. I swallow hard, try again. “What does the cobra stand for?”

Both his brows arch now, eyes wide, their green-blue irises

crystalline in the morning light. He glances down at his arm, then back at me. “What?”

“What does the snake stand for?” I wave in his direction, wondering if I should cut my losses, turn around and run away right frigging now. Being antisocial is one thing—seeing it in action is another.

As I’m about to make my escape, one corner of his mouth tips up.

“You’re funny,” he says, and it stops me in my tracks.

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are, trust me.” He grins. “How about we start again? Good morning, Embers.”

If flames jump from my cheeks, it won’t surprise me. “Morning.”

“Would you like to come inside?” he says, that sexy grin lingering on his full lips. “There might be coffee.”

“No, thanks.” The need to flee is worse than ever, only I’m caught in his spell and can’t move. He’s staring at me, giving me a lazy, slow once-over, from the top of my head to my toes curling in my sandals.

“What, no pet name for me today?”

Oh God, what am I doing here? “Cut it out, Jesse. Don’t be an ass.”

I expect a witty comeback, but instead something shutters behind his bright eyes, and strangely, I feel guilt wash over me. He rubs a hand over his face and slumps against the doorframe, muscles rolling in his arms.

“This is who I am, Embers,” he drawls, closing his eyes. “What you see is what you get. I told you that you’d get tired of me soon.”

But for the first time, I’m not so sure about that. And on top of it, I feel even worse for letting him think that.

“I found it,” I blurt out.

He sighs, opens his eyes to look at me, and instead of anger, I find something totally unexpected: defeat. “What did you find? Organic coffee? The leopard thong I lost the other day? The end of your patience?”

For some reason, I start to laugh. It’s not that what he said is all that funny—come on!—but the image of him in a leopard thong is in equal parts hilarious and hot.

What the hell’s wrong with me?