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Master of Smoke

When she could see again, the werewolf lay on his back, smoke rising from singed claws, muzzle, even his closed eyes.  He’d been knocked cold.  Both the energy globe and the man were gone. 

Jesus, he’d blown himself up!

No, wait -- there he was, running toward her.  Actually, it was more a drunken stagger.  The man’s face looked white and blank, stunned, as if he was moving on blind instinct.  And he was naked.  Really, really naked. 

His powerful broad-shouldered body gleamed in the moonlight, sweat slicking his skin as he raced across the neatly trimmed suburban lawn for the shelter of the trees. 

Beth blinked.  What had happened to his armor? 

Not that it mattered.  He was hurt.  She had to help him.

Even as she ran to intercept him, she shot a wary glance at the werewolf.  He hadn’t moved, apparently still unconscious on his back on the cement driveway, curls of smoke wafting from his body into the night. 

Meanwhile, White Fang’s former victim wasn’t letting any grass grow under his bare feet.  He ran into the woods as if he could see in the dark, long, black hair flying, every step shouting of a grim determination to put as much distance as possible between himself and his attacker. 

Then he stumbled over a root, slammed a shoulder into a tree trunk, and fell on his face.

Shit.  Beth slid to her knees beside him.  “Hey, are you okay?”  She took him by one brawny shoulder and rolled him over.  He was heavy, massive with bone and muscle.  Back in her human days, she probably wouldn’t have been able to budge him at all.  He stared at her, dazed.  She tried again, enunciating.  “Are you hurt?” 

His pupils snapped into thin slits against crystalline blue irises, and his lips peeled back from fangs.  He snarled, one hand flashing out to clamp around her wrist.

Startled, she tried to jerk back.  With her strength, she should have pulled free easily, yet his grip didn’t break.  “Hey!  Let go!  I’m trying to help, dammit!”

He stared at her, something profoundly alien in his blue eyes.  Abruptly the hostility faded, replaced by a hot male interest.  She tugged again, but he dragged her down and breathed in deeply, as if drinking in her scent.

Just as she drank his.  Damn, he smelled good.  Pure male musk, tempting despite the sweat, rage and fear lingering in his scent. 

Beth frowned.  There was blood too, smelling of copper and pain as it rolled from the cuts and scratches marring muscled ribs and brawny arms.

“It’s you,” he rumbled, his voice incredibly deep.  “At last.”