[THIS STORY WILL BE TAKEN DOWN ON SEPTEMBER 30, 2024]
This is a collection of bonus scenes I've written over the years. Some are part of later books in the series. Some short stories are simply 'What If' scenarios. Some moments are scenes that happe...
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I told myself that I was only following Graysen because he'd ruined my night with Paul-Pat-Phil-whatshisname, and that he deserved to be roared at for it.
The pounding bass-beat thrummed through my bones, and sweltering heat had beads of sweat sliding down my spine. I was a wolf, gliding through the melee of twisting limbs. Caught in the midst of the dancers high on fyae-nectar, all of them entangled in a waking dream full of lust and desire, spiked my senses until I too was drunk on their pheromones.
My thoughts disappeared and became a distant hum. I was nothing but instinct—a hunter with my prey in my sight.
Graysen swaggered, that indolent swagger, through the frayed edge of the dancers, up the steps to the platform which Caidan had used to section us off from the mortal mass. Evvie sat on the leather high-backed chair, presiding over all like a queen while Caidan leaned his thigh against the chair's armrest.
The Lyon sisters were nowhere in sight.
Good.
It wasn't just his height, the breadth of his body, or the fact the mortals wouldn't notice the blades strapped to the outside of Graysen's calf-high boots since they were glamoured—everything about him demanded attention, warning you to be wary in his presence or, better yet, run in the opposite direction.
Graysen tipped his chin up to Caidan and reached out and took the crystal tumbler his brother offered him. He crossed a tattooed arm over his chest as he widened his stance, and absentmindedly tapped his fingers on the side of the tumbler. A glint of silver and leather—as all those straps and chains around Graysen's wrist caught the strobe lights when he raised an arm. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, making it all the more charming—bastard—as he said something to his younger brother.
He arched his throat back. My gaze slid along the ink coiling up one side of his neck, grazing the underside of his jawline. He swallowed, lazily working the whiskey down that tanned and corded throat, and I'd never seen anything so godsdamned hot in my life as watching him drink. It had liquid gold snaking through my blood, heating up my core, and an unrelenting ache pulsing inside my sex.
He swiped his glistening bottom lip free from whiskey with his thumb, and I wanted to be the one who licked the beads of scorching heat from his mouth with my tongue.
My gaze traveled down his figure and leisurely back up those long legs of his. The black jeans fitted him just right, and it was a shame that glorious ass of his was facing away. His charcoal tee-shirt clung to his muscular upper-body. The fabric was darkened with sweat right between his pecs, and for one crazed moment I wanted to peel it from him and scrape my teeth over those ridges and valleys of hard muscle, down his chest, his abs, right down to his—
I blinked dazedly, shaking my head, my hair twirling with the motion, as I came back to myself.
