Then the scream tore through the house.
Not fear.
Definitely not fear.
Every instinct in me still reacted before intelligence could intervene.
The spatula clattered to the counter.
The back door slammed open.
Keres stormed in from the garage, fangs out, eyes burning blue,his usual charming self basically.
Mud streaked his boots. Oil smeared his hands. His tattooed chest was bare because of course he had decided shirts were optional while repairing a car before breakfast.
He looked feral.
Wrecked.
More wrecked than me, apparently, which was almost comforting.
“How the f**k are you handling this?” he growled, pacing straight into the kitchen.
I looked at the mud he was tracking over Mom’s floor.
Then at his fangs.
Then at the ceiling, where another pulse of pleasure rolled thr
