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3
Forge
Demetrius.
The word rips through me, charged with dismay.
All these years I’ve been primed to hear this asshole’s name. Ready to make good on the oath I made to my pack.
And now it’s spilling from this little angel’s lips.
He’s her mate? Her crush?I want to steal the name from the air and grind it to dust. I want to hunt him down and tear him apart.
She’s perched on the edge of the chair, eyes like saucers. She has no idea that her jeans are halfway down, and her panties are peeking out. The same sexy lace panties that almost made me come in my pants a few minutes ago. Cherry pink, for a sweet little cherry.
Because I can tell from her scent that she’s untouched.
Even now, I’m torn between getting the truth out of her, and finishing what I started—
The tattoo, I mean.
Because I’m not going to seduce her until she’s begging for me to strip off those panties. Even though my cock has been rock-hard ever since she stepped inside my shop.
I exhale for four beats, forcing my beast back down. “Who’s Demetrius?” I demand.
She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, full of sadness. “He’s my brother.”
Her brother.
Relief storms through me. Not her boyfriend. Not some dude I’m going to have to pulverize.
And if he’s her brother, he’s not the guy my pack is looking for. Because the Demetrius on my most-wanted list is a werewolf. And this little princess is one-hundred percent human—
“Well, my half-brother,” she continues.
Fuck.
“Same mom, different dads.”
“And you’re close?”
She nods. “Kinda.” She hesitates, her chest rising and falling. “He went missing almost a year ago, and my mom’s been out of her mind ever since. She’s real sick. Some kind of immune disorder. The doctors don’t know what it is. But I just think, if I could track down Demetrius and bring him home, she might get well again.” The words tumble out of her. I fight the urge to gather her up in my arms. Kiss away her pain.
“What’s his last name?” I ask through gritted teeth. There’s no word I want to hear less in the whole world.
“Ramiro.”
I clench and unclench my fists as ice shoots through my veins. “You have a photo?”
“Sure.” She scrambles off the chair, and I’m not so preoccupied that I fail to notice her discovering the state of her jeans and hurriedly zipping up, while her cheeks turn an adorable shade of pink.
She scampers over to her folder and returns with a dog-eared photo printout.
Of course, it’s him.
It’s a different image from the one I have, but the familiar face stares back at me.
My mark.
