He didn’t know how to say it more clearly: she was his …
Arousal was flowing through his body, and her fear dragged sharp claws over his skin.
“Calm down,” he managed, in a voice that had precious little humanity left in it.
She quieted, her breath hitching as she tried to swallow the tears. And she stopped struggling, which was good. Except that he still wanted to press against her, despite the irritating layers of cloth in the way. She was sweating, he could taste it, and the urge to press his face against her throat and lick his tongue delicately against her bare skin to taste it even further made a fine tremor run through the center of his bones.
Fur receded. The claws prickling out through his fingertips receded, as well. He won the battle with himself by bare inches, and the animal retreated snarling back down to the floor of his mind, curling up and promising trouble later …
About the Author
LILITH SAINTCROW was born in New Mexico, bounced around the world as an Air Force brat, and fell in love with writing at the tender age of nine. She is the author of the Dante Valentine and Jill Kismet series, as well as the bestselling author of the Strange Angels YA series, which she wrote under the name Lili St. Crow. She lives in Vancouver, Washington, with two children, three cats and assorted other strays. Please check out her website at www.lilithsaintcrow.com/journal.
Dear Reader,
I always wanted to write a story where the were-creatures weren’t wolves or big cats. Which presented an interesting dilemma, until one morning when the hero of Taken sauntered onstage and started telling me his story. Characters. They always act like they own the place.
Anyway, I had a great deal of fun writing this. I hope it’s good for you, too …
Lilith Saintcrow
Taken
Lilith Saintcrow
MILLS & BOON
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For Mel Sterling,
best friend and beta reader.
Chapter 1
“Half my ass is hanging out.” Sophie tugged on the skirt’s hem. There was nothing like wearing your friend’s clothes to remind you of your shortcomings. “I’m, what, only an inch taller than you?”
“Oh, you look fine.” Lucy swept her short, sleek dark hair back, blotting her lipstick. Luce even lit a cigarette before opening her door, the brief flare of the lighter painting her face with gold. “You look hot. Why don’t you ever loosen up and wear a miniskirt?”
“I wear appropriate attire for my job.” Sophie pushed her glasses up, wishing her curls weren’t falling in her eyes. Lucy insisted she leave her hair down. The car was nice and warm, so the touch of cold wind on her bare legs was shocking when she stepped out. She pulled the back of the skirt down one more time and wished she’d just worn jeans. Jeans covered up a lot. “There’s a dress code, you know.” And I don’t have anything else in my closet. Food first, clothes later, that’s the rule.
Luce was already tapping her foot, eager to be off down the cracked sidewalk. “Oh, please. Margo the Battle-Ax wears scrubs all day. You could, too, you know.” She’d squeezed into a short evening-blue silk sheath that showed off her ample curves, and her legs looked long and beautiful in a pair of fishnets, ending in a lovely pair of glittering silver heels.
Heels, for a night of dancing? Well, Lucy had more endurance than Sophie did in a lot of areas. Sophie could stay, have a drink, watch everyone making fools of themselves, then catch a cab home.
Though cabs were expensive.
Lucy slid her arm through Sophie’s. “Besides, you need to put your toesies in the dating pool again, sweetheart. It’s been six months since the decree came through. You’re a free woman.”
A free woman. I wish someone would tell Mark that. “I guess so.”
“You guess so? Come on, Soph.”
“Okay, okay. I’m a free woman.” As long as he can’t find where I live. Stop worrying so much, dammit! But that was like telling herself to stop breathing. And good God, but she had no intention of ever dipping a toe—or any other appendage—in the dating pool ever again.
Once was enough.
The street pulsed with neon. Here on Broadway, Jericho City’s nightclubs were all clustered for warmth, a long row of them on either side of a square bounded by leafless trees and trellises with strings of decorative all-weather lights woven into them. A chill wind came up Fifth Avenue and teased at Sophie’s bare legs. Her back was already aching from the low black heels Lucy had talked her into, a familiar pain she put up with during the week but could have happily done without on a weekend. “Why am I doing this again?”
“Because I need to practice my lambada, and it won’t hurt you to get out from under all those books,” Lucy said sharply.
Thank God for you, Luce. Sophie straightened her shirt. Well, maybe shirt was an ambitious word for a silk spaghetti-strapped tank top that showed a slice of midriff. This was Lucy’s, too. Sophie didn’t have anything that satisfied Lucy’s exacting standards for a night out.
She had precious few clothes at all, and was sneakingly glad her best friend had rolled right over the top of her objections and squeezed her into something she didn’t have to buy or wash. Luce wasn’t always the soul of tact, but she almost never referred to Sophie’s situation—except to note that Mark had been a bastard, and to lament that Sophie hadn’t taken him to the cleaners.
“I’m having one drink, and I’ll stay to drive you home. Okay? That means that we have to leave at a reasonable hour.” Which would solve the whole
