BAD MOON RISINGThe Crown's Wolves #1
They are the ultimate weapon. The ultimate secret. They are the Crown’s wolves.
Lycan Roman Lanzo and his brothers are bound—by magic, no less—to serve the Crown of England. All he knows is honor, violence, blood, magic, and death. Which is exactly when he finds her. A rare female Lycan, gorgeous, fierce, powerful, and with no memory of who or what she is. Now everything in Roman’s blood wants to help her, protect her, and—damn it all to hell—want her.
Nova woke knowing only that her leather Goth get-up was riding up in the wrong places, and that she had to find Roman. Since then, every moment is a new and unsettling insight into her gifts, her dangerous skills, who she is, and what she wants…including this daunting, muscled Lycan whose name is tattooed on her skin.
But the Crown knows all about Nova. What she is, what she can do, and just how brutally dangerous a female Lycan can become. Now they want her put down for good. And they have their perfect weapon of choice… Roman.
“I did what I was told. Now, do whatever you’re supposed to do to allow me to remember my past.”
“What?” His face scrunched up. An errant bit of unruly hair fell across his forehead and tickled the point at the top of his sculpted nose. Cameras must love his symmetry and angles.
“You know me, right? You know who I am? Is Nova actually my name? Have we met before? Please, I need to remember.”
“I don’t know you,” he said.
He didn’t know her? He had to. Her phone vibrated against her racing heart, likely another countdown warning. Task accomplished. She’d gotten him out of the subbasement. Did she need to get him out of the club for the miraculous recovery of her memories?
“Why was it important I leave downstairs?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” She wanted to text back “Unknown” to report her success, but, “Unknown” probably wouldn’t respond. She’d replied to the texts the moment she woke up and never got anything back. “I think we have to get out of the club. Something might be about to happen.”
His head whipped to the side to search the dance floor. “I have business to attend to. You’re going to stay put until I finish. If you don’t—”
“If your knife comes out again, I’ll shove it in your heart,” she interrupted.
“I like a good fight.” He leaned in. The air bristled with energy. His bourbon breath saturated her nose. “I don’t lose.”
She stared into his bottomless blue eyes, feeling breathless and tingling all over. But not in the least intimidated.
Hoarsely, he said, “I’m also very good at hunting once I have the scent of the one I need to catch.”
“If I ran, it’d be a challenging hunt for you.”
His gaze dropped to focus on her lips. Her mouth went dry, like a desert. Was he going to kiss her? She wasn’t opposed.
Nerves tightened her stomach as she envisioned her mother turning in her grave at the thought of such a violation of etiquette as an illicit kiss in public. Violation of etiquette? Was this a memory? Hot damn. How was it wrong to kiss this exceptional man? Right on the heels of that revelation came a buttload of stubbornness to do exactly whatever the hell she wanted.
She remembered her mother, not by an image, but with the idea of propriety. This deep-set sense of decorum seemed antiquated, not something belonging to the twenty- first century.
She’d remembered something! This man might actually be the key to her past without the need for a chemical antidote. Maybe this is why she had to find him and get him out…to get him alone.
If a kiss could open her mind to remembering, then she was all in. Hell, memory crisis aside, she wanted to feel the power of him against her. Lips…his tongue—both were a tempting start. Should she initiate this kiss or let him? She waited.
Nothing happened. He didn’t move. “You should be frightened of me,” he whispered, a noise she shouldn’t have been able to hear over the pulse- pounding music but did.