Chapter 2: Regrets

A low growl ignites in his chest. It isn't human. It's deep, feral, and terrifyingly possessive. It vibrates against my palms, through my bones, into my very blood. His hand shoots up and grips the back of my neck. Not gently. Not asking.

Taking.

He isn't pushing me off. He's locking me in.

His other hand clamps onto my waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He hauls me closer, impossibly closer, until I'm nearly in his lap, my knees hitting the leather beside his thighs. He slants his mouth over mine, and the kiss goes from accidental to scorching in a heartbeat.

He's kissing me like he's claiming me.

Like he's branding me.

Like he owns me.

His teeth catch my bottom lip. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make me gasp. He uses the opening to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with confident possession. The taste of scotch intensifies. I can feel the scratch of stubble against my chin, smell something earthy and wild beneath the expensive cologne—pine and rain and pure Alpha.

My hands are still on his chest, but I'm not pushing away anymore. I'm gripping his shirt, knuckles white, holding on because if I let go I think I'll fall.

Heat floods through me. My wolf, who barely ever stirs, is suddenly pacing, whining, pressing against my skin like she's trying to get out. Trying to get closer to him.

What the hell is happening?

Then, just as quickly as it started, the atmosphere in the room shifts.

The music cuts out.

The chatter dies.

Even the clink of glasses stops.

The only sound left is the ragged sound of my own breathing as I tear myself away from him, stumbling back. My lips are swollen. I can still taste him. My hands are shaking.

"Oh god," I gasp, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "I'm so sorry. It was a dare. I just—"

I finally look up.

The man slowly stands.

He keeps rising. Six-foot-four, maybe taller. Pure lethal muscle wrapped in expensive fabric. His eyes—storm-grey, cold as winter—lock onto mine with an intensity that makes me want to bare my throat in submission.

But it's not him that terrifies me.

It's the room.

Every bouncer, every bartender, every patron is staring at us. The security guards at the VIP entrance have already drawn their weapons—not guns, but silver batons. The kind that can kill a wolf. They aren't aiming them at him.

They're aiming them at me.

"Get down!" a guard roars, rushing toward me.

The man raises a single hand. Just two fingers.

The guards freeze instantly, skidding to a halt five feet away. The silence is deafening. I can hear my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.

"Sir," the head of security chokes out. He's a huge wolf, easily two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, and he's bowing. Actually bowing. His head is so low I can see the bald spot on his crown. "She breached the perimeter. We'll remove her immediately. We'll break her legs for the insult."

Break my legs?

For a kiss?

Panic claws at my throat. I spin around, searching for Jess, for Madison, for any of the girls who dared me to do this. They're gone. Vanished into the crowd like smoke. Those traitorous bitches left me.

"No one touches her."

His voice isn't loud. He doesn't shout. He doesn't need to. The command carries to every corner of the now-silent club, settling over everyone like a weighted blanket. The guards don't move. Don't breathe.

The man steps around the table with predatory grace. Fluid. Silent. Controlled. He moves like a wolf even in human form—stalking, circling, cutting off my exits. He boxes me in against the velvet booth, his body a wall of heat and muscle and danger.

"Look at me," he commands.

I don't want to. I really, really don't want to. But my wolf—that usually pathetic, dormant thing—is suddenly whining in submission, pressing me to obey. I lift my chin, forcing myself to meet his eyes.

Up close, they're devastating. Storm-grey with flecks of gold that catch the dim light. They should be cold, but they're burning. Focused entirely on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

"Name," he demands.

"April," I squeak. Then, because my mouth apparently has a death wish, I add, "April West."