her body as she gazed at his body.
His fingers reached for the front of his black leather pants. Coloring, she ducked down again. When she lifted her head, sounds of the shower began.
Curiosity overwhelmed her. Emily crept around to the cottage’s side. The bathrooms were designed to let in natural light and give the feeling of being outdoors while in the shower. A wall of glass looked out to a curtain of pine trees. Sneaking between the glass and the pines, she watched.
In the glassed shower, Raphael stood beneath the twin jets, his back to her. Damp, ragged black hair hung in strands to his wide shoulders. Smooth, golden flesh covered his muscled backside, and his bottom…
Emily stared at the rounded firmness of his buttocks. When he turned around, she released a startled gasp. Her shocked gaze roamed from the dark hair on his firm chest to the rippling muscles on his abdomen, down to the thick hair at his groin and the…
Her gaze whipped back up to his other end to find two dark eyes regarding her with amusement.
Emily squeaked, fleeing into the safety of her forest.
Emily was curious to see him. Well, she’d gotten a good look at him. More than an eyeful, Raphael thought with a grin.
But would she spend the next three weeks running away?
He dried off, dressed and went onto the porch. Sitting on a wood rocker, he listened to the peaceful cheep of tree frogs, the distant lowing of a cow left in a pasture. Twilight draped shadows over the stretch of grass marching down the gentle slope toward the forest.
What kind of life was it for Emily when her entire pack feared even the tread of her steps on the stairs?
Something about his charge bothered him. Not her absence. That was normal. But the feelings she evoked in him, powerful and overwhelmingly sexual. He’d never felt like this before around a transition.
His feelings were equally intense regarding her pack. Something was off, especially Bridget. He couldn’t gauge them, probably because of their pure blood and lineage.
Old resentments flared, but he set them aside. He leaned back in the rocking chair. Raphael closed his eyes, scenting a delicate aroma of lavender and female. The fragrance heated his blood and he gripped the rocking chair’s armrests to steel himself against sudden arousal.
“Emily, come out. I’m Raphael, the Kallan. I know you’re there, watching me. I’d like to meet you. Don’t be afraid.”
Silence filled the air. Then a strong, sweet voice spoke into the gathering darkness.
“Afraid? You’re the one who should be afraid, Raphael Robichaux.”
Her voice deepened with a slight menace. “Very afraid. Because I carry death with me wherever I go. And my hands, judging from the way they are itching right now, tell me you are next.”
Something tugged at his conscience. Her voice with its slight Southern accent seemed familiar. Emotions crowded him. Most overwhelming was a deep feeling of utter sorrow, as if part of his very soul were to die.
It was his distress at her youth and growing anger at her pack’s deception that marred his perception. Nothing more. Raphael dismissed his inner feelings. Emotions were dangerous and clouded his judgment.
He opened his eyes, staring at the sunlit dappled oaks and maples. “Good. Then come forward. If you wish me harm, then have the courage to show yourself.”
“Why should I? I’ve already seen you,” the reply came, followed by a small sniff.
Delight filled him at her snappy attitude. “Seen a lot of me, have you? Let’s look at each other face-to-face and not through the bathroom window.”
Her gasp made his grin widen.
Movement snapped his attention to the left. Raphael half closed his eyes, waiting.
A figure emerged from the woods. His senses sprang to alert. The approaching female walked with quiet grace. Light from the porch showed hair the color of an angry sunset drawn up tight in a bun like the other Burke females. Damn.
Young. Much younger than his 105 years. Barely a decade past her first change into wolf. Much more disturbing was the wild cascade of emotions tumbling through him. Fascination. Thrill. And a reckless feeling of intense arousal.
As if he wanted to spring forward, take her into his arms and kiss her senseless. Strip off her ugly, ankle-length dress, lower her to the green grass and ravish her until they both lay panting and spent with pleasure. With her oval face, wide green eyes fringed with red-gold lashes, pert nose and rosebud mouth, she resembled a fae wandering from the safe haven of a forest. Even the ugly, shapeless dress she wore didn’t disguise the ethereal beauty and delicate features.
Raphael closed his eyes, shutting out his initial reaction. Emotions are dangerous.
He drank her in through his other senses. A small smile touched his mouth. Despite the myriad of feelings pushing at him, he could read her spirit. Defiant and not willing. He faced a big fight.
She would not go gentle into that good night, but kicking and screaming. And part of him relished her anger. After all the times he’d dispatched his own kind, he wanted someone to fight him. Someone to tell him to piss off, instead of beg for death with dull, pain-glazed eyes.
The air around him shifted. A chill dropped over him as if winter breathed hard and fast across his body. Raphael suppressed a shiver. His warm Cajun blood howled at the icy blast.
It emitted from her.
Death lingered in her, but not her own. Her touch killed.
Waiting, he reached out to assess her. She smelled absolutely delicious—strong and very alive. He tasted the cold fury in the chill she threw off. Yet he burned with desire as he sensed her drawing nearer.
Raphael waited, rocked and remained silent.
“You can’t be the Kallan. You’re much too young.”
The accusation made him smile. Opening his eyes, he studied her approach, graceful as a wood nymph. The last rays of sunlight glinted her hair, making it look as brilliant as the setting sun.
“So are you. I was told by your Alpha you’re elderly.” He didn’t hide his anger. Raphael sat straight, his thighs splayed, hands on knees as he regarded her.
“I’m twenty-two.” She hesitated, and her voice seemed sad, oddly familiar. “I feel as if I am an ancient.”
A frown touched his mouth as he scrutinized her appearance. “Have we met?”
She laughed, the sound like gurgling water cascading over stones. “Doubtful. You’d remember me, for I don’t shake hands. Ever.”
Emily held up her hands, displaying thick, ugly mustard-yellow gloves. They were a grim reminder of the lethal threat she carried.
“I could kill you with a single touch,” she said, her dulcet voice contrasting with the ugliness of her words.
“I
