Run, Little Heir
My fingers almost brushed his again, and a faint hint of his scent—something like cold mountain air and expensive cologne—hit my nose.
This was pathetic. I’d been around lethal, attractive wolves before without losing my composure. Take Ronan Hardfang, for instance—dark, dangerous, and a favorite of the district scouts. Or Lucien Winstorm, a literal wolf-god with blue eyes and platinum hair. Then there was Garrick Warclaw, who looked like a recruitment poster for the High Alpha’s guard. They all made heads turn, and I’d always been perfectly cool under their gaze.
So why was I suddenly fumbling over a guy in a borrowed shirt?
Bab Populer