Marked by the Moon (Nightcreature 9)

“We don’t have time to shift,” Barlow snapped. “Or at least you don’t.”

Her eyes opened. He was right. Damn him.

“Why do you care if I’m caught?” Stifling her disgust, Alex pulled on the clothes.

“I don’t care if you die screaming in the electric chair. But if they keep you behind bars until the next full moon—” He glanced at the dead man. “—and I’m pretty sure they will, there’ll be too many questions once they see what happens then.”

“Again, what do you care?”

“I hate questions.” His fingers dug into her arm as he dragged her toward the door.

“I hate you,” she muttered.

“Aw, and here I was hoping you’d fall madly in love with me, just so I could spit in your face.”

Oh, boy, this mission was going to be so much fun. Especially when she nailed him.

Suddenly Barlow stopped, tilted his head, listened. Footsteps clattered closer. The police had arrived.

Alex tensed. What if Barlow decided to kill the cops so the two of them could go on their merry way? What would she do?

An evil, satanic wolf bitch would jump right in and help.

Decisions, decisions.

Luckily she didn’t have to make one. Barlow tugged Alex into the corner, then closed his eyes. His face became intent, as if he was trying very hard to imagine unimaginable things. A rumble came from deep in his throat; a flush darkened his skin. She could have sworn she caught the scent of…anger. And that she could smell anger distracted her for all of an instant before something else captured her attention entirely.

A weird, shimmery glow drifted downward; crystal waves cascaded between them and the rest of the world. A pair of officers thundered down the hall and into the room without a glance in their direction.

“Shit!” said one.

The other gagged. He must be a rookie.

“Who called this in?” the first demanded, probably more to get his partner’s mind off the mess than anything else.

“Dispatch said—” Cough. Cough. “Some old guy from the neighborhood.”

Edward. Asshole. He’d meant for Alex to get caught, or nearly so, to draw Barlow out.

As she and Barlow waited for the officers to leave, they remained crushed together in a cocoon created by Barlow’s magic, her nose pressed to his neck, his chin brushing the top of her head.

He smelled wild, but not in a feral, unpleasant way. Instead Alex caught the scent of evergreens, snow, and fresh air. The great outdoors.

She leaned in and caught again the drift of anger, like jalapeño peppers preserved in ice. How strange. That scent seemed to swirl both around, then through her. Her entire body tingled, nerves dancing, the hairs on her arms, her neck, everywhere, alight with sensation.

He pulled her closer. The movement caused her lips to brush his collarbone. The texture both smooth and hard, she was compelled to taste.

Her tongue darted out, and she relished the flavor of man. His blood sang, just below the surface, and she wanted it; she wanted him. Her moan was protest, or maybe arousal.

“What was that?”

Vaguely she heard one cop speak, another murmur; then the two of them stepped into the hall. Alex didn’t care. Her body seemed to have a mind of its own, or perhaps no mind at all.

Her hands crept under Barlow’s shirt, touching his skin, the hills and valleys of his rib cage, his abdomen; her teeth scraped the vein in his neck as her thumb traced below the waistband of his trousers and over the hard, smooth head of his shaft.

His breath caught; she glanced up. Fury suffused his face, flushing his skin, honing the fine bones beneath. He glanced over her shoulder as the two men came out of the room, then grabbed her hair and yanked her head back so hard her neck cracked. She figured he was going to kill her, or at least try. Instead he crushed his mouth to hers.

Their teeth clashed; she grunted. He caught her lip between his teeth and bit down. A warning. Keep quiet.