edge, as if he could cut with knifelike precision through every bad element that ever rode a N.Y. subway. Yet he had the face of a gentle warrior. Sienna’s breath caught. She felt a stir of sexual chemistry.
He was as lonely and grief-stricken as she was. Her heart twisted. Who had hurt this man? She wanted to go to him, comfort him and ease his sorrow. Sienna smiled.
A crooked, charming smile touched his full mouth. Twin dimples appeared on those taut cheeks, making him appear younger and boyish. She felt all her own pain slowly evaporate. Gods, he was handsome.
An odd connection flared between them. Sienna locked her gaze to his, desperately needing someone who understood.
Then her nostrils flared as she caught his scent. Hatred boiled to the surface. Not a man. Draicon.
The enemy.
Matt willed the woman across the aisle to connect with him. He assumed a nonthreatening posture, his arms open, palms spread.
Come on, sweetheart. Smile at me. You’re not alone. We’re the only Draicon in this steel cage.
Hope surged as a small but vital connection flared between them. He leaned forward, his heart beating fast. Their gazes caught and met. The woman pushed at her mink-brown hair, and gave a small, shy smile.
He let his own smile widen, let her see the pull of sexual awareness between them. Interest flared in her gaze, and she tilted her head.
Then suddenly her smile wobbled. She made a moue of disgust. Slipping her shoe back on, she shook her head.
“Draicon dog.”
The word was a low mutter, but his sensitive hearing caught it as if it were shouted. Stunned, he sank back into his seat. She called him one of the most filthy insults among their kind.
Ice slid over his heart, made his spine rigid. Matt felt his smile crack like brittle glass.
Then he gave her a long, cool look and turned away. Ignoring her, as she’d ignored him.
Reeling in his control, he resisted the urge to punch the wall again. Matt folded his arms, stretching the shoulders of his battered leather jacket. He dragged in a deep, calming breath.
And smelled something dark and foul.
His gaze landed on a man in a suit. Italian, expensive. But the wearer had cold, dead eyes. He stared at the Draicon female as if she were steak. Matt inhaled again, catching the scent of shaved metal and putrid sickness. He briefly touched the man’s mind and reeled back from the dark images there.
Not good.
The subway stopped at the Canal Street station. The Draicon female gave one last disgusted look at Matt and slipped out of the car.
The human suit followed, his expression hungry.
Matt leaped up as the doors began to close. Werewolf strength easily held them open and he bounded onto the platform.
The woman was in danger. And he couldn’t ignore a threatened female, no matter how badly she’d treated him.
Both had vanished into a tunnel leading to another platform, but he caught their scents. Matt tracked them, increasing his pace. Worry stabbed him. The tunnel was well lit, but he’d seen that man’s expression, smelled his lust.
The business suit intended to rape her.
Not on my watch.
Wolf snarled to the surface. Down, boy. He resisted shifting into his animal side. A wolf stalking through the subways would attract attention. He could handle this as a human. The Sig Sauer holstered at his side was an old friend, but his hands were weapons, as well. He could kick that guy’s ass for daring to even think about hurting a woman.
Heels click-clacked ahead of him, the sharp tap of the woman’s shoes and the brisk sounds of the suit. Matt hugged the wall, every sense screaming awareness.
There.
Before a short set of stairs, the suit had pinned the woman against the wall. No one else was around. Black briefcase lying on the cement, opened, papers spilled out. The suit flashed a dark smile, his fingers splayed along the female’s throat. Light glinted off the polished metal of the knife he held against her throat. A thin trickle of blood dripped onto her pristine white collar.
Matt suppressed a low growl and remained still, gauging the best move. He didn’t want one more drop of blood spilled. Except from that bastard.
Even as he started forward, his footsteps silent, the woman glanced at him. She rolled her eyes. At the very same time, the attacker turned his head.
Matt sprang forward, but the woman punched her would-be molester in his soft stomach, sending him reeling. Cursing, he raced forward.
The suit recovered, his face tomato-red. He came at her, the wicked blade raised.
She snarled and flung out her hands, raising her shoe. Her pointed shoe. The tip landed straight in the man’s groin.
Wincing, Matt watched as the suit let out a high-pitched, unholy scream. He cupped his groin, the knife tumbling to the floor with a clatter.
The woman kicked him again. This time the man yowled like a cat. The Draicon female studied him with a look of satisfaction.
Matt squatted down besides the attacker, squeezed a nerve on his shoulder. The suit fell unconscious as the Draicon female retrieved a cell phone from her briefcase. She thumbed in 911 and spat out instructions, then hung up.
Blood dripped from the small wound, staining the white collar of her shirt.
“You can leave now,” she told Matt in a rigid voice.
The dismissal was curt and brisk. Matt stared in disbelief.
“I know you’re not deaf, because I saw your reaction when I called you a dog. So, are you going to leave? I’ve got this.”
He gritted his teeth. “I was trying to help.”
She rolled those lovely eyes again. “Thanks for the help, hero.”
“He cut you.” His tone was curt, hiding the concern.
She wiped the droplets off her neck. “It’s just a flesh wound.”
At his hard stare, she shook her head and bent over, showing the delectable curve of her bottom as she gathered papers into her briefcase. “Not a Monty Python fan. ‘Course not. Draicon hotshots like you prefer Lassie. Although I doubt you have half the strength of Lassie.”
“Stop it.”
Glancing up, her eyes widened at his sharp tone. He clenched his fists as she snapped the briefcase shut.
“You can defend yourself. I get it. You don’t want help. I don’t need an instruction manual. But the Lassie dig—” Matt struggled with his rising temper “—has to go. I don’t know who knocked the brick off your pretty little shoulder, sweetheart, but it wasn’t me. So ditch the
