The freezing Alberta air bit into Varg's bare, scarred chest, but the sub-zero wind wasn't doing a damn thing to quench the white-hot rage and suffocating panic tearing through his lungs. He leaned heavily over the stone balustrade of his balcony, his massive, calloused hands gripping the ancient rock so tightly that the stone micro-fractured beneath his fingernails.
Fu-cking hell!
His breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, tearing out of his throat like a wounded animal caught in a silver snare.
Just minutes ago, he had been holding her. He had been drowning in the scent of her—that soft, intoxicating mix of fresh wild blossoms and bright lemon that belonged solely to his Black Sun. But the absolute second his eyelids grew heavy, the moment his inner wolf let its guard down to drift into sleep, the shadows had struck.
