LITMIR.BIZ

      Prologue

      With his sharp gaze locked on the most magnificent female he’d ever set eyes on, Wyatt Pallaton did his best to choke back the deep, aggressive growl rumbling up from his chest—and for the most part, he succeeded. But then, most was a relative term. Several of the nearby guests glanced his way at the stifled scrape of sound, their eyes narrowed with censure, warning him not to be rude. As if he didn’t already grasp the situation. He knew damn good and well that a wedding was generally considered a “no growling” affair. Even ones where the majority of those attending were a far cry from human.

      Still, he didn’t want to make a scene. Sending the disgruntled werewolves, or Lycans, as they preferred to be called, a tight smile, he waited until they’d turned back around in their seats before allowing his own irritation to show.

      Mindful of the occasion, Wyatt was doing his best to keep a tight rein on himself—but Christ, it wasn’t easy. Predatory hunger, visceral and thick and savage, poured through his veins like liquid fire, burning him from the inside out. His body was tense, muscles so rigid and tight he felt like a bloody volcano on the verge of eruption. Just another ground-shaking, life-altering, cataclysmic event in the making, putting the tension on fate’s bowstring until it was ready to snap. Twang. Hell, it wasn’t as if he and his fellow Runners hadn’t had enough of those “what did I do to piss off the gods?” events lobbed in their faces recently. And here he was, balancing on the edge of a meltdown. Sweet. He was about to take the “biggest jackass of the year” award. Lucky him.

      With his large hands clenched into hard, straining fists in his lap, Wyatt ground his jaw and tried like hell to keep it together. But there was only so much that a man could endure. Based on the pathetic fact that he was shaking apart inside with lust and need and too many damn confusing emotions, he could only assume that he’d finally reached his limit.

      After months of biding his time, waiting for the stubborn woman to acknowledge their mutual attraction and come to him, he’d had enough. Not surprising, he supposed, since as a primal, aggressive male, waiting wasn’t exactly one of his specialties. Undeniably dominant in nature, the thirty-five-year-old Bloodrunner was accustomed to going after what he wanted with single-minded intensity, not stopping until he had it—but these were unusual circumstances.

      And Elise Drake was a far cry from your average female.

      Considering the length of time he’d

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