Chapter 7 · Two

The gate was still screaming when he breached it.

Nine hundred pounds of hydraulic steel, warped off the hinges, and Julian Sterling stepped over the buckled edge like it was a curb.

Sub-zero wind blew in behind him, freezing the slush on my clinic tiles. The triage bulbs flickered, buzzed, and died down to a jaundiced hum.

I had the silver-tipped syringe pressed to his throat before his second boot touched the floor.

"Don't move."

He stopped. Not because I had lethal neurotoxin leveled at his jugular. Because he was staring.

Six years. Six damn years, and the Alpha of Ironcrest hadn't softened an inch. Same ink-black hair pushed back by raw wind. Same jagged scar splitting his left brow down to the cheekbone. Same slate-gray eyes that could drop an entire room's temperature by ten degrees.

Only right now, they weren't cold.

They dropped. Down my jawline. Over the exposed curve of my neck. Locking onto the scent gland behind my ear.

His nostrils flared.

Every muscle under his heavy leather coat locked tight.

"Jesus," he rasped. It sounded like gravel scraping together. "Nora."

"Step back, Julian."

"You smell like—" His jaw clenched so hard the tendon jumped.