Here we go, snippet time. As always, this is pretty much a little teaser for the book, so there isn’t meant to be context or set-up. You’ll just have to guess where they are and why. Because I am an asshole!

The glass Emma had in her left hand shattered.

Pequeña?” Seshua said, stepping into the kitchen.

“It’s fine.” She blinked, refusing to look at her hand. If she didn’t look at it, it wouldn’t hurt. “I’m fine.”

He made an interested noise and padded over to her. “Humans have such a way with words,” he murmured, his voice still rough, and grabbed the hand towel off the rail, holding it under her bleeding hand. “Fine being one of the most versatile and eloquent words in the English language, when humans use it. Truly, it can mean anything, though it rarely does mean fine.” He hissed. “You have glass in your hand.”

She sure did. And she shouldn’t have looked at it. “Shit.”

Seshua cleared his throat. “Will you let me… ?”

Clenching her teeth, she looked up at him, really looked, and her mouth went dry.

He was still Seshua – still seven feet of smoky blue muscle and masculinity, his hair a glossy black mane that tangled down his back, wavy like hers was. His shoulders were still broad enough to make getting through doorways difficult. His eyes were still hypnotic, midnight blue, the look in them so intently alive that it almost banished the memory of him lying lifeless and unmoving in that upstairs room.

But he’d lost at least twenty pounds, maybe more, and he looked haunted.

More, she felt haunted when she looked at him. She’d almost lost him. For over a week, he’d been a ghost. He’d lain as though dead. As though dying of the wasting illness that claimed his kind – that had claimed both his parents. Jesus Christ, it could take him too, couldn’t it?

“Slow your pulse, pequeña, you’re making it bleed faster. Here.” He cupped her bleeding hand with the towel and took a step closer. “Ah, see, it is not so bad.”

“No?” Her voice didn’t shake – yippee for her.

He bent his head, taking a chunk of glass between forefinger and thumb. “No. So,” he purred, his voice dropping sinfully low. “Did you miss me?”

The timing was perfect: on her sharp inhale, he yanked the broken glass out of her palm and shot her a wink, and she barely felt the pain at all.

“Sure,” she said hotly. “Missed you like a hole in the head. Missed boxing your ears and yelling at you for not letting me save you, you stupid sonofabitch. Next time -”

He leaned down and kissed her. He was so damn fast and agile as a cat, and she’d been mid-sentence, so her mouth was open when his lips captured hers. He tasted wild and utterly male, like spiced smoke and jungle and power made flesh, and his mouth felt just as good and right on hers as she remembered from the first time he’d kissed her.

Y’know, when he’d hypnotized her and tried to trick her into being bound to him and under his control forever.

She broke away and slapped him with her good right hand. He made a deep, aroused sound in his throat. “Your mark didn’t flare,” he said, voice full of laughter and satisfaction.

“Because you don’t scare me. Give me that.” She snatched her left hand away from his, taking the towel with her, and wrapped her palm.

He crossed his arms and managed to loom without moving a muscle. “So how do I make you feel.”

She bared her teeth at him. “Homicidal.”