He’d watched the
easy grace of her movements. Gazed spellbound at the way the light played off her
creamy skin, glinted in the golds and rich browns of her hair. He’d caught her
scent and it had twisted something inside him, making him want more.
Then she’d looked
into his eyes and he’d felt . . . alive.
“Fuck,” he
muttered, liking the vulgar way the human word rolled off his tongue.
It made no sense,
the knot of rage and uncertainty lodged just beneath his breastbone. Human
emotions as invasive as a strangling vine. As dreaded as a reaper at a wedding.
Carefully, he
settled Roxanne in the passenger seat of the vehicle, then shrugged out of his
jacket and pulled it around her. She’d be cold when she came back.
He circled Santo’s
vehicle and got in on the other side. Gripping the steering wheel, he flexed
his muscles, fighting the urge to strike out at something, anything.
In those first few hours after he’d
taken the human, he’d felt trapped by the awkward form, but now the flesh and bone
he’d stolen no longer felt heavy and cumbersome. It felt strong, powerful. A
finely tuned machine of muscle and will. Yet he was helpless to do anything but
wait as he battled his doubt.
He curled his fist
and gave in, slamming his knuckles into the dash until pain cleared his head.
He started the engine, tapping as seamlessly into Santo’s driving skills as he
had the rest of the man, and pulled away from the curb, foot heavy on the gas
pedal as he left behind the pandemonium and bodies inside Love’s.
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