Flock

There’s no mistaking it. I’m staring directly into the eyes of said wolf.

He hovers over me, in complete contradiction to my attire in a tailored black suit. Hair the color of a raven’s wing, dark olive skin deepened by the sun, thick dark brows slashed over hostile eyes. Below, a strong prominent nose resting on a chiseled face, thick, God-kissed lips, broad shoulders, defined pecs, a trim waist beneath his open jacket, and muscular thighs that strain against his suit pants.

That’s when I know that knowledge truly is power, and I’ve been utterly stupid to think I had anything figured out.

I’ve been so fucking blind.

I’m drowning in fiery amber depths and nowhere near strong enough to withstand it. It’s the most I’ve ever felt under a man’s gaze in my life. I shuffle to cover my bare breasts as his eyes trail down my body. He’s ready to pounce, his posture livid, his fists clenching at his sides. I’m positive if I were standing, my knees would have buckled under the weight of his blistering gaze.

I’d gotten it totally wrong—one step forward, ten steps back.

“You’re The Frenchman.”

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