Someone emerged from the packhouse with all the casual arrogance of a god who knew he was sculpted perfectly and wanted the world to suffer because of it.
Tall. Shirtless. Bronze-skinned with broad shoulders and an eight-pack that looked illegal. His jawline could cut diamonds, his lips were carved for sin, and his eyes—fiery amber-gold with a phoenix-like glow—could probably make someone fall to their knees and offer up their soul with a smile.
Dirty gray hair swept back in wild waves like he'd just rolled out of bed after ruining someone's life. A light scar ran across his collarbone. The kind of scar that had a story. A tragic, hot story.
Liora, who had been mid-hover, suddenly wobbled in the air and clung to a nearby tree for support. Her spiritual essence nearly short-circuited.
"Sweet forest moss . . ." she whispered. "That's illegal. That's absolutely illegal."
No werewolf alpha in the otome games she had played could hold a candle to this.
