TASTE OF A BROKEN LUNA

“You came,” Ethan rasped, his voice dropping into a register that made the fine hairs on Jess’s arms stand up.

The lake house was a sweltering tomb of bass and pheromones. Ethan didn’t just look at her; he mapped her. His eyes, dark with a hunger he usually kept masked by soccer stats and easy smiles, tracked the line of her throat down to where the silk of her dress strained against her chest. He moved closer, the heat of his body acting like a physical weight, pushing against her until the small of her back hit the wainscoting of the hallway.

He didn't ask. He simply reached out, his thick fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck, tilting her head back to expose the pale, unmarred skin of her throat.

“Your brothers will skin me alive for this,” he whispered against her skin, his breath a scorching trail.

“Then let them,” Jess bit out, her hands finding the hard, corded muscle of his biceps. She didn't want safety. She wanted to burn out the image of Michael Reynolds and Vanessa Price twisted together in that bedroom.

Ethan’s mouth crashed onto hers. It was a collision of teeth and tongue, tasting of salt and cheap whiskey. He groaned, a deep, animal sound that vibrated from his chest into hers, and hoisted her up. Her legs locked around his waist instinctively. He slammed her back against the wall, the framed photos of the pack house rattling against the plaster as he devoured her.

“Alex?”

The voice was a bucket of ice water.

Jess froze, her heart thudding a frantic rhythm against Ethan’s ribs. Ethan didn't let go immediately; his grip on her thighs tightened, his knuckles white, before he slowly slid her down the wall. They turned in unison.

Michael Reynolds stood at the end of the hall. His nose was a jagged, swollen mess of purple and black—the mark of Jess’s fist from hours earlier. He looked pathetic, his Alpha-scent sour with desperation.

“What the fuck is this, Ethan?” Michael’s voice cracked. “That’s my girl.”

Ethan stepped in front of Jess, his shoulders broadening, his posture shifting into a defensive crouch that screamed predator. “You lost the right to claim her the second you knotted Vanessa, Michael. Now turn around and crawl back to whatever hole you came out of.”

“Jess, babe, please,” Michael ignored him, his eyes pleading. “It was a mistake. A shift-fever thing. You’re human-passing, you don't get how the blood pulls—”

“Don't you dare,” Jess hissed, stepping out from behind Ethan’s shadow. Her voice was cold, sharp as a glass shard. “I’m a Whitman. I know exactly how blood works. Yours is just weak. Get out before I finish what I started at your apartment.”

Michael lunged forward, but Ethan met him halfway. Their chests collided with a dull thud. Ethan loomed over him, his eyes flickering with a dangerous, sub-vocal growl.

“Touch her, and I’ll ensure you never practice medicine because you won’t have hands,” Ethan warned.

Michael’s jaw worked, his eyes darting between them. He mouched a silent I’m sorry toward Jess, a pathetic attempt at a hook, before he turned and bolted out the side door.

Jess felt the adrenaline drain, replaced by a hollow ache. The tears she’d been holding back pricked at her eyelids. Ethan didn't say a word. He just wrapped an arm around her waist and steered her through the crowd, his body a shield against the prying eyes of the pack.

The walk to her apartment was a blur of neon and cold air. When they reached her door, she couldn't face the empty silence of her room.

“Stay,” she whispered, her fingers catching the hem of his shirt. “Please. I don't want to be alone.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised.

Inside, the air was still. Jess bypassed her dresser and grabbed the one thing that felt like armor: the oversized, faded jersey Delilah Hale had sent her. It had HALE emblazoned across the shoulders.

When she came out of the bathroom, the jersey swamping her small frame, Ethan was already shirtless. He sat on the edge of her bed, the lamplight tracing the deep grooves of his abs and the powerful swell of his chest. He looked up, his gaze dropping to the name on her back.

He let out a short, dry laugh. “Seriously? You’re wearing his name to bed while I’m in the room?”

“It’s comfortable, Ethan. Don’t make it weird.” Jess sat on the edge of the mattress, reaching for a bottle of lotion to soothe the ache in her feet.

Ethan didn't answer. He watched her. His eyes followed the movement of her hands as she massaged the cream into her calves. He let out a low, guttural groan and reached out, his hand snapping around her wrist to stop the movement.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me, do you?” he rasped.

“I’m just putting on lotion—”

“You’re a goddamn siren.” He pulled her back, her spine hitting the mattress as he hovered over her. His weight was a solid, grounding presence. “If we start this, Jess, there’s no going back. Kyle will have my head on a pike.”

“Kyle isn't here,” she whispered, her hands sliding up to cup his face.

Ethan didn't hesitate this time. He claimed her mouth in a kiss that was pure possession. His hands slid under the hem of the jersey, his palms scorching against the bare skin of her thighs. He moved with an urgent, messy hunger, his tongue tangling with hers as his thumb hooked into the waistband of her lace panties.

“Fuck, Jess,” he breathed against her lips.

He didn't pull the lace down. Not yet. He slid his hand lower, his fingers finding the slick, aching heat between her legs. Jess cried out, her back arching off the bed as he found her rhythm. He was relentless, his mouth moving from her lips to the sensitive hollow of her throat, his teeth grazing her skin until she was sobbing his name.

“I want you,” he growled, his voice a raw animal vibration. “I’ve wanted this for years.”

He moved to position himself, his arousal heavy and pulsing against her thigh, but he stopped. He closed his eyes, his forehead dropping against her shoulder, his chest heaving as he fought for control.

“We should sleep,” he panted, the words sounding like they were being torn out of him. “If I do this tonight, while you’re hurting over Michael... it’s not right. I want you to want me, not just a distraction.”

He rolled away, the loss of his heat making Jess shiver. He reached over and killed the light, pulling her back against his chest in the dark. His arm was a heavy, protective bar across her waist.

“Goodnight, beautiful,” he whispered into her hair.

The morning sun was an intruder, slicing through the blinds. Jess blinked, her vision focusing on Ethan as he stretched. The movement made the muscles in his back ripple like water. He looked back at her, a lopsided, sleepy grin tugging at his lips. He winked—that damn, cocky wink—and disappeared into the bathroom.

Jess was still tangled in the sheets when her phone shrieked on the nightstand. She lunged for it, her heart skipping a beat.

“Hello?”

“Baby doll! Oh, how I’ve missed that sexy voice of yours.”

The blood in Jess’s veins turned to liquid nitrogen. She knew that voice. It wasn't Michael. It wasn't Ethan.

It was Dominic Hale.

“Dominic?” she stammered, her grip tightening on the phone.

“I’m in the city, Jess. And I just saw a very interesting photo of Ethan Cole leaving your building in last night’s clothes.” His voice was low, lethal, and vibrating with an Alpha’s territorial rage. “I’m outside. We need to talk. Now.”